


The Inquisitors Phylactery

by AniasTrevelyan (Callmeisolde)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood Magic, Complete, Ensemble Cast, Established Relationship, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Post-Series, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 15:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 26,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3655221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Callmeisolde/pseuds/AniasTrevelyan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian has spent a year in Tevinter when he's suddenly called back to Skyhold. Something sinister and mysterious has befallen Inquisitor Trevelyan and with the help of the inner circle (or what's left of it), Dorian will need to find the strength to put things right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Letters From Skyhold

Here he is, with the better part of a year spent back in Tevinter and precious little to show for it.

With each passing day, he becomes more anxious for news from the south, for a tightly folded paper with the wax seal of the Inquisition. Even the thought of sailing over the Waking Sea is not so terrible to him at this point. Of course, the moment he should step into a boat --but there is precious little point in reminding himself of that. He would be very happy to return to Orlais, he tells himself, even if he should have to swim to get there. His time in Tevinter has not been a waste -- never that -- his movement slowly gains ground. However, minds are amongst the hardest things to change no matter where you are in Thedas, and his countrymen are no exception.

Meetings and speeches, intrigue and a healthy dose of subterfuge are all required to press forward. Then there are the assassination attempts. All signs of weariness that might cling to him vanish when he sits down to write the Inquisitor a letter.

_Dear Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

_I am quite enjoying being back home now that the seasons are changing. Considering how frigid it will be in the South, avoiding the cold of that dried out old castle you insist on occupying serves me just fine. Here, I continue to enjoy sunshine and the proper level of humidity. I dare say I shall be a completely new shade of sun touched brown when I return._

_I trust Leliana and the others are keeping you well, do remember to eat between jaunts into the heartlands. For myself, I have only had to foil two assassination attempts since the last time I wrote. The first, a misguided rogue in the market who attempted to put his knife through the back of my favourite robe as I walked. Quite garish for someone to turn to such measures in Tevinter when there are poisonings and accidents that could be arranged, but I digress. He seemed distracted by how handsome I was up close and I was able to snatch the knife from him._

_The second came in the form of a staircase no doubt enchanted or trapped in some way, as I toppled end over end I swore never to take another stair so you will have to install some kind of lift to the library or else I will never visit again. Assuming Leliana is reading this missive I would like her to know that enchanted staircases are an excellent way to make someone's death look like an accident. Just another trinket of information I have shared with the Inquisition. Feel free to add a statue of me to the courtyard._

_As always, you are terribly dull and I hate you._

_Dorian._

Ah but there is so much else to say. Dorian always bites off the last bit of sentimentality. It would not do for someone other than Leliana to read his letter. Two important men like them -– cannot have the Inquisitor becoming a target to hurt Dorian or vice versa. Of course, the latter is far more likely, but he has to worry for them both. So he folds and seals the envelope and sends it as quickly as he is able.

Then the waiting game begins and, _Kaffas,_ he hates waiting. Back to the meetings, the standing on the dais, the imploring and flattering of certain people and the dismissing of others.

Every magister in Tevinter seemed to regard Dorian with cool distaste when he first arrived from the south but now – he is beginning to attract allies. Other members of the magisterium as equally disturbed by the Venatori cult as he, others who detest blood magic, who refuse to play the game. It is all quite boring, really, when compared to saving the world.

And then a letter arrives.

Cool parchment, wrinkled in places by water, smelling salty as the ocean between them, the red wax with the eye impression of the inquisition standing out against the smooth paper. He unfolds.

_Dorian Pavus,_

_The cold is not so bad as you remember Dorian. Besides, these days the keep is filled with Cullen’s idealistic recruits and it seems the more bodies the more warmth in the stone. I do not want for heat or food. Every day more support pours in and with it comes delicacies from far-off kingdoms and offers of this and that._

_We received some bitter candies from Tevinter and I thought of you. Don’t think I’ll be developing a taste for them anytime soon. I am sorry to hear about the stairs._

_Leliana says it is possible you are clumsy and a fool, but she will look into the possibility of enchanting stairs in any case. What she will not entertain is installing any kind of lift in Skyhold. She reminded me you would still have to climb the stairs from the courtyard to the front door and we all agreed we could put you up in the Tavern instead (should you deign to visit us). I cannot promise you will wake without Sera drawing on your face or removing your moustache, but at least you will arrive in one piece._

_Assassination attempts here have been somewhat more mundane, poisoned Orlesian tiny cakes being the most exciting form of punishment I have had to endure recently. Luckily, I do not eat the things in one bite as others do, and the amount of poison I ingested was small enough not to harm me. Iron Bull, it turns out, has an Iron stomach, and no one else would go near the things. I will not soon be getting that taste out of my mouth, however._

There is an impression in the paper and a small oblong splotch of ink as though the stylus rested for some time before the words.

_As always, you are a dreadful man and I hate you, Dorian._

_Inquisitor Trevelyan._

Should he see the Inquisitor again Dorian feels he will need to offer tutelage on how not to sound like a lovesick puppy and give away your boyfriend to your enemies. Ahh, but the way he uses Dorians name – he pulls out another piece of parchment and immediately starts with his reply.

_Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

_Those tiny cakes always taste like that. Are you sure it was poisoned and not just deep mushroom flavoured? I have heard consuming deep mushroom in that fashion can cause incontinence so, for the sake of your dignity, I am glad I was not present._

_As for sleeping in the tavern, despite the fact I have done so in the past (not on purpose mind you), I would rather climb six flights of stairs then do it again. I take immense offense to the rude things Sera chose to draw on my face the few times I nodded off with a bottle of brandy, and I would have you make some enquiries on my behalf to determine if it was in fact just Sera and not some combination of The Iron Bull, Varric, Blackwall and she. Something about the scrawl of the giant penis said Bull, the lack of eloquence Varric, and Blackwall looked much too smug when he saw me the next morning. I am certain he was an accomplice._

_I know I said I would visit, Inquisitor, and by now you must realize I enjoy being fashionably late. That said I might be able to sneak away this spring to visit the south. Do let me know if all those idealistic youths have left enough room for one Tevinter Altus and his sizeable… book collection._

_As always, you are terribly dull and I hate you._

_Dorian_

Days quickly become weeks while he waits for another letter. Suddenly those few weeks have strung together a month and Dorian can tell by the air that winter is passing. He thinks of Skyhold in the spring – all musty and damp and the sound of rain reverberating through the keep and he is almost anxious enough to just do it, just throw his things in a boat and leave. His allies grow stronger and he thinks _if I can just set someone up to do the dirty work –_ _maybe I can operate this rebellion remotely_. Of course, it is a bit of fantasy, things would surely lose their momentum without Dorian's conviction. Nevertheless, he can dream of a time when he might again perform his ranting and raving from the mountains of Orlais instead of the ruins of Minrathos.

Just when he is beginning to worry and exactly two minutes before he would have stooped to ask some random stranger if they had news from the south, Dorian receives another letter. From the outside, it appears mundane, the same as all the rest, but upon breaking the seal his heart immediately swells in his chest to press painfully against his rib cage.

_Altus Dorian Pavus,_

_I must implore you to return to Skyhold with due urgency, at the behest of our Lord Inquisitor Trevelyan._

_Sister Leliana_

Dorian’s mouth is dry and he swallows with difficulty. Obviously, the spymaster was loath to go into detail, just as he refused to wax sentimental. Any perceived weakness in the Inquisitor could mean the end of the Inquisition, or a renewed effort to kill him. She gave no hint as to what was happening at Skyhold, no detail that Dorian could grasp or agitate.

Immediately his mind is full of the details to arrange, crossing Nevarra and then the Waking Sea would be the fastest way to reach Orlais, but still, the journey would take time. If he pressed himself, rode through several days and nights on the Imperial highway to Cumberland he might be able to get there in less then two weeks. Could he do it? Better to try and fail, Dorian decides, then show up too late. For what he is unsure, but the mere fact that Trevelyan himself did not sign the missive, or write it, makes Dorian's stomach clench with fear.

A few letters to his Tevinter allies informing them of his departure and, he must promise, imminent return, are essential. A word left with the proprietor of the house and a sack of coin. A much smaller bag packed then would be wise, and Dorian is atop a horse and on his way back to Orlais. If this were some kind of ploy to have Dorian return in a hurry, he would just as quickly slap Trevelyan across the face as kiss him.

But it is not a ploy, that much is clear when he lands in Jader and begins making inquiries. The ride from Val Dorma, where Dorian had been staying when the letter reached him, had taken the better part of a week. Luckily, it was highway and not traipsing through the countryside – which allowed him to ride through most of the nights. A blessing really, as he was so tired when he finally disembarked from Cumberland that he slept, albeit fitfully, for most of the two-day sailing voyage. A vast improvement over his previous sea voyages.

With Inquisition emissaries taken up residence in most major cities throughout Ferelden and Orlais Dorian decides it worth seeking the local chapter out. A few questions asked, a few corners turned and Dorian is face to face with the Inquisition representative in Jader. The boy is hardly out of puberty, Dorian thinks as he sizes him up. An agent of Leliana’s, he quickly discovers the boys usefulness. Previously of a noble house, the emissary is vague and diplomatic to a fault. He does not even waver under Dorian's scrutiny nor does he seem to know exactly what is taking place in the Frostback Mountains. It takes some manoeuvring for him to admit, “Sister Leliana does not divulge private information to her agents' ser, if there is something wrong at the keep, it is being carefully hidden. That being said,” and here he speaks conspiratorially with Dorian, “I have heard from the network that the Inquisitor has not been seen at Skyhold for a month now. It is possible he is duty bound somewhere else, but I thought it odd.”

Dorian takes his leave quickly and returns to the road. A horse is easily acquired and he sighs as he looks at the beast. _Here we go again, and just when my spine was beginning to thank me_.

There is no Imperial highway from Jader to the mountainous home of the Inquisition, the path through the Frostbacks winding and unpleasant. Luckily, it is short and Skyhold finally seems within reach. It is with pleasure Dorian notes that the Inquisition has made improvements to the path since last he travelled it, no doubt for the benefit of all those visiting dignitaries and nobles. Soon the keep is within sight.

“Who approaches?” a voice calls out once Dorian's horse steps foot on the bridge.

“Dorian, of house Pavus.”

There is a long moment of whispers and scuffling of feet before a familiar voice calls down, “Open it.”

The gate opens and Dorian rides past a series of grim looking Inquisition soldiers.

The first recognizable face he sees is Cullens. The big blonde lion strides down the stairs from atop the wall where he called, and offers his hand in welcome. Dorian dismounts and grips Cullen’s hand firmly. “Dorian, it is so well you’ve come.”

Dorian can see lines of worry in his friends face, but the firm grit of his jaw seems to indicate he is going to say no more. Dorian nods and jibes, “I imagine you’ve been letting Trevelyan best you in chess while I’ve been gone, no worry, a worthy opponent appears.”

Cullen hardly presses his mouth into a smile, motioning for some young soldier to approach and take Dorian's horse. “We should speak to -- ah, there she is.” Leliana is watching from the landing leading up to the keep. She nods when their eyes find her, but does not move to approach.

As Cullen leads Dorian up the turning path, Dorian grips his elbow and steps in beside him close. “I am absolutely beside myself with exhaustion and if someone doesn’t tell me what’s going on...”

Cullen nods sullenly and continues to lead him to Leliana who makes a show of kissing Dorian's cheeks in front of the entire hold in a gesture of welcoming. _This Tevinter is to be trusted. This Tevinter is a friend._

Then she motions for them to follow her and they fall into step behind as she ascends the rest of the stairs to the doors of the keep. Dorian chuckles mirthlessly as he thinks of Trevelyan’s letter, _surely there could be more stairs at Skyhold, why not build another tower or a raised dais or …_

Inside the keep, it is silent. Eerily so. The fire burns brightly by the door to the rotunda, it's crackling the loudest sound in the hall, but there is no dwarf standing there. Light glints off the gold of the unfinished mosaics to his left and the Inquisition throne sits empty beneath the expanse of stained glass at the end of the hall. No dignitaries, no visiting nobles in sight. Not even Josephine there to meet them.

“Now truly, what is going on?” Dorian’s voice is still light but there is an edge of unease creeping in.

“Not here.” Leliana says lightly, if overheard, she would sound as though she was quipping with a friend and not cautioning him to be silent.

“But there’s no one…” Dorian hisses back, quite unwilling to play whatever game she is encouraging. Leliana steps curtly to the door of the Inquisitor's personal chambers and pulls out a key. “Why is it locked?” Dorian probes, interrupting his previous thought. She gives no response, pushing the door in and continuing her solemn march.

When the door closes behind them Leliana blocks the stairs up to the chambers. “Dorian,” she says, as though she is speaking to him for the first time, “thank you for coming so quickly. If I knew you were close, I would have sent someone to meet you in Jader.”

“I did meet someone, an emissary I sought out in the city who told me the Inquisitor hasn’t been seen in Skyhold for over a month. What is going on you two? And please, don’t step around it.”

“Ah, yes. I'm sorry but that's quite correct. Some four weeks ago, the Inquisitor… went to sleep, and upon morning could not be roused.”

“ _Kaffas,_  poison or injury?”

“We believe it to be magical in origin. We have had healers of all kinds and mages besides, but none can determine what ails him.”

“And why wait, why wait and only send for me now?” Dorian pleads, unable to keep his gaze steady and composed.

“I’m sorry Dorian.” Cullen puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. “We wanted to be sure. When the matter became serious, we sent for you. Letters take time, and travel besides.”

“Yes, I know, I’m rather inconvenient. Can I see him now?”

Leliana steps aside with another blasted nod and Dorian pushes past her, momentarily fueled by anger, exhaustion forgotten.

The chambers smell sickly sweet, elfroot and lyrium. Everything is clean, too clean as if every trace of Trevelyan’s life has been neatly stacked or hidden in a drawer. No papers litter the desk in the corner, no open books rest there. The doors to the balcony shut to keep out the spring damp and the air vaguely heady, hanging with magic. Of course, how else would they sustain a man asleep for so long? Starvation and dehydration abated with spells and potions. For all of that, Dorian can instantly see Trevelyan is reduced. Not skeletal, not yet, but thinner then he remembers. His mighty Inquisitor supine in the bed with the blankets folded neatly over his chest and his arms atop them. His face, ah! How long has Dorian longed to see that face? Blank and expressionless. Eyes closed, not a single line of worry or strain standing out on the forehead or around the eyes. Dorian suddenly misses the slight crinkling of those eyes as Trevelyan spoke, or smiled or laughed. His hair is longer, about two inches longer than the closely cropped cut he prefers. His stubble too has grown slightly although it is plain someone has been tasked with his upkeep.

Dorian sits down on the bed and takes Trevelyan’s hand. Cold skin, not deathly so but cold all the same. Dorian unconsciously begins rubbing the hand within his own, trying to ignite a spark.

“You ungodly lazy man.” He manages. Expression pained, voice not quite lilting, as it should. “ _Festis bei umo canavarum_.”

Dorian reassures himself of the other man's breath with a small kiss, feeling the heartbeat strong beneath his hand. He closes his eyes, summons mana, the power tingles in his fingers, and still, he summons more. A great ocean of it, capped only by Dorian's exhaustion and the feebleness of his wavering emotion. When he holds as much power as he can contain he slowly and gently channels it into the sleeping man, sending some of it out in a healing pulse and the rest as a probe. Evaluating his condition, sensing the magic inside him dragged down

and down

and held.

Trevelyan is indeed under a spell. Something about the sensation is familiar to Dorian; it feels of untouched things, forbidden things. Blue, tinged with red. As the light of his magic begins to fade from the room Dorian opens his eyes, squeezes Trevelyan’s hand and turns to Leliana and Cullen, staring meekly from the top of the stairs, watching and pretending not to watch.

“its blood magic.”

 


	2. Memories (1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse.

In the weeks that became months after the defeat of Corypheus, Dorian talked repeatedly about his imminent departure.

_Soon,_ he would say, _I will be sipping Tevinter wine from golden chalices and eating grapes out of a hand – not the hand of a slave mind you, I am going to be freeing my family’s slaves – but I suppose that means I will have to take a young lover with the express purpose of grape feeding._

_I suppose you will_. Trevelyan’s smile not quite touching his eyes, but he was more than willing to joke. _It wouldn’t do to have the leader of the inquisition feeding you grapes._

_Are you implying you would come to Tevinter and preform the most menial tasks to earn my favor? Ha, no it wouldn’t do at all. Shall we try it out?_

And on and on, always with the joking and sometimes with the threatening. Statements like, _I wouldn’t have to go if you weren’t so inspiring._ Sometimes he would be flattering and sometimes even cloying, but he would never ask the Inquisitor if he wanted him to stay. Never that. It was always at the tip of his tongue, carried under the glib remarks, but never expressly asked. The answer was clear in Trevelyan’s eyes and it made Dorians ribs hurt.

At some point the remarks and comments became too much. Their easy banter became forced.

Trevelyan began to spend a little more time away and a little more time in silence. When they rested beside each other in the expansive Orlesian bed Trevelyan began to turn away from him and fall asleep wordlessly. Dorian stopped teasing, and then he stopped talking at all.

Perhaps if they had been more open with each other, more honest and plain Dorian would not have made the arrangements at all. He would have remained, maybe forever. Honesty and plain speech were not things at which he excelled.

Perhaps it was in his eyes, but if the other man did not look, he would not see the question there.

The night before Dorians departure, they lay down beside each other and his heart was thumping painfully, his stomach uneasy as he considered what to say.

Trevelyan broke the prolonged silence between them himself; he was always the first to act. “Dorian, are you awake?”

“Yes, _Amatus_.” Dorian rolled onto his side, the Inquisitor was on his back with eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could see the answers written there.

“Dorian, I know … I know you haven’t been in a relationship before. This … publicly. I know it’s hard for you.”

Dorian had no words for that; it was undeniable that he struggled at times. Holding hands publicly, a stolen kiss surrounded by people. Questioning stares and probing conversations as everyone tried to figure it out – were they or were they not? How did the Inquisitor really feel about the Tevinter Altus at his side?

When he didn’t respond Trevelyan continued somewhat deflated, hoping, no doubt, Dorian would have reassured him by now. Kissed him maybe. “But try to be honest with me,” Try, as though Dorian was incapable of doing so. “Are you leaving because you want to end this?”

Ah, so there it is. Not _please stay Dorian_ , not _I need you by my side Dorian._ Trevelyan was always achingly considerate of what Dorian wanted, what Dorian thought. It drove him mad. _No_ , he wanted to shout, _no_.

“Is that what you want, Inquisitor?” There was a bit of hurt in his voice, an edge of anger that knotted his brow. Trevelyan sighed, a deep sigh of defeat that took the wind out of Dorians sails and quelled whatever anger was there.

“Turning my words against me.” Trevelyan mused with disappointment. He finally turned to Dorian and raised an eyebrow when he saw the obvious hurt that Dorian was always incapable of keeping private.

“No.” He said finally, “that’s not what I want.”

“And yet you have never asked me to stay.” Dorian hissed, holding onto familiar sounds, familiar ways of discourse. Trevelyan laughed at that, his eyes crinkling up. He had a stupid sounding laugh, all rounded with his free marcher accent. “Am I amusing to you Inquisitor?”

“I suppose you are. Here all this time with your comments about leaving, and what, you were goading me after all? I thought wounding me was a painful side effect and not your intended purpose.”

“I always seek to wound.” Dorian reached for him and gathered him up in his arms. “You’re right; I am very bad at this. But I would sooner fight several dozen Venitori then end what’s… between us.”

“Then go.” Trevelyan breathed on his neck, lips finding collarbone, “and I’ll wait for you to change the world.”


	3. A Few Friendly Faces

Before anyone can respond, Dorian is on his feet. He is pushing past and striding with long confident steps down the hall. He throws the door open with a crash and continues back the way they came, cutting left though the door to the rotunda and taking the stairs to the library two at a time – enchantments be dammed – where he explodes into the familiar sights and sounds of the library. Well, sights. There are no sounds. No mages, no researchers, not a soul present and the silence is eerie.

“Was it absolutely necessary to empty the entire keep?” Dorian hurdles over his shoulder as the advisors appear behind him. He is already combing through the stacks of books, looking for something in particular. Something he recalls from his time as the resident heretical archivist.

“Better to contain knowledge of the Inquisitors condition to those we trust, no?”

Dorian nods. “For the best then.” He extracts a book, flips through it and makes a disgusted noise as he tosses it to the floor.

“You said it was blood magic.” Cullen interjects, “How do you know?”

“Ah, but I am Tevinter and therefore an expert in the stuff.” Dorian scoffs, and then, more quietly, “I could feel it, like a red tinge in the magic that holds him. It is a tremor, a sickness that pulses in his veins. It’s keeping him in the fade, disconnected from himself and from his magic.”

“One of the mages who saw him said something similar; he did not think blood magic however, but some kind of demon influence…”

“No, not a demon. There are many things that can trap a man in the fade and a demon is just one. I am certain, it is a blood magic cast remotely.”

“Remotely, is that possible?”

“Here.” Dorian smirks when he recognizes the work he has been searching for. He flips to the passage he remembers and reads it aloud. “When a Templar wishes to track down a fugitive mage they will use the phylactery as a way of homing in on the fugitive. The phylactery glows, becoming brighter the closer it gets to its respective mage. If the mage dies, the phylactery will no longer glow. It can even be used to remotely cast a spell on its owner mage.”

He looks up triumphantly from the passage and is met by two blank faces.

“Don’t you see? Phylacteries are nothing but a little bit of convenient blood magic! It’s the only form of it your Southern chantry condones; no doubt they’ve become fond of its usefulness.”

“Could a phylactery truly be used to cast so powerful a spell?” Cullen is obviously distressed by the idea, folding his big arms across his chest and furrowing his brow. Dorian has little patience for doubt.

“In blood magic, the blood is used as mana; the mage draws power directly from it. No, there would not be enough blood in a phylactery to provide the mana for such a spell; however, a mage could use another source for power, and the phylactery as the vessel. Cast a spell on the inquisitor’s blood and the inquisitor feels the effects.”

Leliana purses her lips, back straight as ever. “I have searched for the Inquisitors phylactery before, but to no avail. Phylacteries of senior mages are kept hidden in Denerim.”

“It’s perfect really, they would never have to step foot within Skyhold itself, never reveal themselves from the shadow, never risk detection, the inquisitors failing health would be blamed on illness or … _better_ , demons!”

Dorian is ranting now, pacing, the book forgotten in his hand and reduced to an object of enunciation. “I can hear them talking, a _fitting fate for an upstart mage who reached too far for his power_. That is what people would say, _a cautionary tale for mages of the south_. No one would guess blood magic because, what, is this _Tevinter_? And look, no black robed strangers bleeding all over him, can’t be blood magic oh no!”

Suddenly, the drain of the journey, the emotion of the moment and the power he has already drawn on are too much for him. He feels himself slipping to one side involuntarily and decides to crumple into his chair instead. Lowering his head into his shaking hands, he breathes. The smell is the same. The smell of musty books, paint, dust motes flitting through the air, candles burning down to waxy pools. If Dorian keeps his eyes closed and just breathes, he can almost imagine none of this has happened and he never left at all.

Leliana voices his thoughts, “Much has changed since you left Orlais. Divine Victoria rebuilds the Templars as a new order, as well as the seekers. The circles are all but empty, more and more mages turn to the new College of Enchanters. The phylacteries of the former circles are believed to be destroyed.”

“Divine … Victoria, has she been told?”

“No… her position is already precarious and we thought…”

“The Inquisitor is her friend.” Dorian hisses through his hands, “it seems you thought very little.”

“Dorian,” Cullen asks quietly, “You said the Inquisitor was being held in the fade. Would it be possible to find him there, restore him somehow?”

“It is possible.” Dorian looks up, thinking, “The ritual requires a great deal of power, and lyrium. I am not sure if I could do it alone. If I failed, and he somehow died in the attempt, it might render him tranquil. Or me.”

“What other recourse do we have?”

“If we could find the phylactery, disrupt the blood magic, he might be restored.”

“We must think of another way, I can redouble my agents search for the phylactery but in the meantime...” Leliana begins and Cullen gives her a quieting look. If she agrees, it might have more to do with Dorians obvious suffering then Cullen’s glare. The former Templar gives Dorians shoulder a gentle squeeze as Leliana turns on her heel to leave.

“Rest Dorian, you’ve come far in the last few days. We can discuss our options tomorrow.”

 

* * *

 

Dorian intends to spend the night next to Trevelyan in the familiar bed, but when he reaches the Inquisitors chambers, it does not feel right. Not warm, not welcoming as it might have been should their reunion have gone differently. Instead, he wraps himself in a blanket and dozes off in the high backed chair behind Trevelyan’s desk. Watching blearily through heavy lids as his lovers chest rises and falls with his breath.

 _Just keep breathing,_ he thinks, unsure if he is directing the thought to Trevelyan or himself, _just keep breathing._

Dorian wakes to the strange sensation of two thin arms wrapped around him from behind and immediately struggles to free himself, arms flailing about and head smashing back. His elbow collides with something hard and “Ow! Dorian!”

Cole stumbles back, hand to cheek, eyes wide as a puppy who has just been struck.

“Cole! Who in their right mind would send you to wake me up?”

“I’m not very good at waking people up. I try soft, then I try loud … but there’s nothing there to hear me.”

Dorian gapes for a moment, looking blearily at the young man before him. “Ah, we’re talking about the inquisitor now, yes?”

Cole nods. “I tried to wake him for you Dorian.”

“Thank you, Cole.” They stare for a few uncomfortable moments at the Inquisitor, unchanged, unmoving, before Dorian can no longer stand it and turns to a mirror to smooth the back of his hair fussily.

“Sometimes I hear him, and he’s angry, he’s calling and no one answers, he wants out. Why don’t you talk to him anymore Dorian?”

Dorian turns back, “He… can’t hear me Cole.”

“Not now, but sometimes he listens. He hears. When he is struggling. But then the silence is too much and he goes away.”

“Cole, I do appreciate the thought but could we skip the part where you torture me? How about, _welcome back Dorian. How was Tevinter Dorian? You’re the only one who knows how to dress around here Dorian._ ”

“Tevinter was too hot, too many people, too many watching eyes and prying questions and too much empty space in the bed.” Cole pauses and considers Dorians frown. “You’re the only one who knows how to dress… Dorian.”

“The opportunity has passed Cole.”

He strides out of the room and feels, rather than hears, Cole fall into step behind him.

 

* * *

 

A small crowd seems to have gathered in Josephine’s office. When Dorian throws the door open the faces swivel to find his and he recognizes a few sympathetic nods and relieved half smiles.

As Blackwall moves towards him to take his hand, Iron Bull claps him on the back, and Sera squeezes his shoulder, Dorian is overwhelmed with the realization that they are happy to see him. His belly warm, he tries to duck away from meeting their eyes, lest they see how overcome he truly is. Josephine pats him on the arm and it is all he can do to keep from turning on his heel and leaving.

“Well, you fools didn’t need to resort to killing the Inquisitor to get me to return.” He quips, but his joke falls rather flat. “Yes, sorry, too much. I am unused to this kind of reception.”

“Shut up Dorian.” Sera sighs, punching him hard in the arm. “You are a monumental arse.”

“Some things never change.” Blackwall huffs.

Cole slips in behind and closes the door. When Leliana deems everyone is quiet and ready to listen she begins.

“You all know what is happening. Dorian has just arrived, he has – possible insight as to what might be affecting the Inquisitor. Namely, blood magic. A possible source -- the inquisitors’ phylactery. Presumed destroyed during the rebellion, it might have been recovered by … an enemy.”

“Still no clue as to which one that might be?”

Cullen steps up,“There are many, it’s true. However, the Red Templars are destroyed; Corypheus has no followers left to speak of, Venatori agents still exist – but Lelianas agents report they continue to retreat from Orlais and Ferelden. It is possible other powers are at work. Empress Celine or the Chantry…”

Sera chimes in, “Cassandra… Err, Divine Victoria, or whatever, is still our friend. She wouldn’t…”

“There are many arms of the chantry, and Divine Victoria is still learning to command.”

“Maybe one day she can scratch her arse with them all.” Sera mumbles.

“So what do we know about these Phylacteries?” from The Iron Bull.

“We know the Phylacteries of enchanters like the Inquisitor were taken from the mages home circle once they passed the Harrowing, so it will not be in Ostwick.”

“Great, that’s one circle down, how many to go?”

“The phylacteries of first enchanters and senior enchanters were held in The White Spire. Those I can confirm were destroyed during the mage rebellion.” Leliana continues. “But the phylacteries of younger enchanters, their location was always kept secret. The Divine, the Divine Knights and some Knight Captains of the Templars would have been the only ones to know their location. Of course, there are precious few knight captains still alive. The last Divine Knights perished at the Conclave along with the Divine. All we have is this: the Phylacteries were kept in Denerim, and to house so many, there would have to be a large enough repository.”

“We can’t just walk up to the King of Ferelden and say, hey, you have anything big around here?” Bull grumbles.

“No, we can’t.” Dorian wades in, “And there’s more.” He takes a breath, but despite himself, the mask slips and his voice wavers. “The Inquisitor is dying.”

For a moment there is quiet, perhaps they were all just a little too aware.

“And what of the fade?” Cullen asks.

“Yes. A mage or mages working together might enter the fade using lyrium. I … have never done it alone, but it’s possible the Inquisitor could be retrieved that way.”

“Problem is,” Bull muses, “I only see one mage.”

“Could we send for Vivienne, or Morrigan?”

“Too far and missing, respectively. We don’t have much time.”

“Is it dangerous?”

“No more so then one of your southern mage parties, oh yes, harrowings.”

“We should attempt it. Tonight if we can, tomorrow we can set out for Denerim if you prove unsuccessful.” Cullen, ever the commander.

“The lyrium…”

“I can supply it; we still have a contingent of Templars here at Skyhold.”

Dorian is resigned, his mind already beginning to race as he considers what he will need. There are books to confer, rituals to remember.

“I will request an audience with The Divine in Val Royeaux.” Leliana surprises them, “I think it right Divine Victoria is told. She might also know something of the Phylacteries. She is, after all, the highest ranking former Seeker.”

Dorian nods his approval, he and Leliana meeting eyes briefly.

“What about the others?” Blackwall asks, “Varric, Vivienne…”

Leliana shakes her head. “There’s no Raven I could send that would bring them in time.”


	4. Memories (2)

Trevelyan rode with him to Jader.

Dorian tried to insist they part at Skyhold, he would ride out of the gate and not look back and Trevelyan would watch him shrink into the distance, sun dancing on the clasps of his coat as his disappeared between mountain spires – romantic. Cathartic. An everlasting jewel of a memory. However, Trevelyan was having none of it.

“Absolutely not, it’s only a few hours ride and I… I would have those few hours.”

So they left together, the two of them. They took no guards, no soldiers, no agents or even friends. Dorian said his goodbyes to everyone else in the Keep.

_Varric, this is your last chance to make any notes regarding my stunning visage, you know, for the character you are no doubt basing off me in your book. Remember this profile -- remember these piercing eyes._

_Remember how ungodly vein and annoying you are._

_No, that’s not right, get it right, I am the jewel on the arm of the Inquisitor –_

_Sparkling away. Yes, I got it; now off you go back to your blood thirsty countrymen, Sparkler._

And then later, away from the jokes and quiet like Varric gets when he’s being heartfelt, _just be safe out there Dorian._

_The Iron Bull. I will not soon forget your looming shadow. Try not to punish Krem too much in my absence; I know you will have a Tevinter sized hole in your heart._

_Yes yes, my second favorite Vint. Don’t get yourself killed._

Not as glib, not with Blackwall. _Do be careful, I hear the Inquisitor is attracting all kinds of murderers now._

_None so bad as you Tevinter. Take care._

Downright serious with Cole (the kid does not understand joking, not the way Dorian does it).

_Cole, take care of yourself. And the Inquisitor._

_Dorian, why are you leaving?_

_I want to make my homeland a better place Cole, a place worthy of us._

_You and he, arm and arm, there goes the Herald and the Black Divine._

_I never aim low, Cole. But that’s just a fanciful thought you should not be repeating._

_It’s not a bad thought._

Sera hard to read, pacing and fretful. _If you come back Dorian_ , she begs, _come back you still, hey? Don’t come back like one of them. Don’t come back all scary and blood magical and power hungry ‘cause right now you’re OK, you’re not scary now and in Tevinter – well, don’t come back like that._

 _Do visit soon Darling, it is only the Waking Sea and all of Nevarra between us._ Vivienne glanced at Trevelyan pointedly; _you have proven your value here. Do not forget that Dear. You will not be getting the same assurances in Tevinter._

Josephine, all ruffles and feigned indignation when Dorian tried to get away with just a bow and a smile, _Dorian Pavus you still owe the Inquisition several bottles -- oh come here._ And she grabbed his shoulder and kissed his cheek.

Leliana had an inkling of warmth behind her smile as she shook Dorians hand, on that same landing now, overlooking the courtyard below and feeling positively melancholy. _You’ll always have a place in the Inquisition Dorian._

Lastly, Cullen, a warm embrace Dorian did not expect as they were exiting the courtyard, feet from the gate and then the road beyond. _Before coming here, I cannot say I counted a single mage – certainly not a Tevinter Altus – among my friends._

_Cullen you are positively disgusting, how droll. Don’t let Varric tempt you into gambling again, it’s not worth your dignity._

Then they were on the road.

Alone.

It was perhaps the first time they had ever traveled so, and they made the most dismal effort imaginable to reach Jader on time.

When it finally came for them to part ways, with the ship threatening to leave and someone yelling in Nevarren at him to be quick about whatever he was doing – Dorian found he could not bring himself to utter even the most inconsequential goodbye.

Trevelyan smiled; his was a small, searching smile. “It’s OK, Dorian. Go.”

“I… _kaffas_ , could you be any more infuriating?”

“I know you want me to ask you to stay or some such thing, but you know I can’t. I agree that this is important. If you think Tevinter is worth redeeming you must go, you must try.”

“I don’t know why I can’t…” Dorian turned away, not wanting to show the cracks as they formed and split.

“You’re dreadful Dorian, and ….” Trevelyan stumbled over the usual refrain,  “and I love you for it. Now go!”

 


	5. In a Dream

Cullen brings him the lyrium at dusk.

“It proved more difficult than I anticipated procuring it,” He admits, “In its pure form it is much harder to come by, even from my suppliers. I hope this is enough.”

Dorian takes the proffered bottle, its contents swirling blue and singing, _singing_ to him. The melody of the lyrium thrums in his ears and raises bumps along his skin in reaction. Every hair on end in response to its nearness.

“Yes, this is enough.”

He sits on the edge of the bed, unstopping the bottle and pouring it into a small metal bowl. The liquid bubbles, emitting a burst of energy that makes Dorian shake. A cloud of blue vapor begins to rise from the bowl and as he concentrates, delving into himself and dipping into the endless seeming depths of his mana, Dorian welcomes the vapor with outstretched hands. When he is heavy with it, dripping with it and enveloped in the blue he puts the bowl on the table beside him and lays down next to the Inquisitor, taking the cool hand of his love into his own.

When he opens his eyes, he is outside the gates. Not far removed, not far from Skyhold, but everything different.

He concentrates for a moment, what is different? Why is he filled with dread? There is a strange banner on the walls and the bridge is awash with people. He looks behind and realizes hundreds are stretched behind him and hundreds in front. People solemnly marching to Skyhold, entering the keep. Disappearing then, fanning right towards the stables and up the stairs to the left. They are blurry to him, somehow faded out facsimiles of people as though his brain is trying to piece together memories of processions long past. Dorian files into step with them wondering what would bring so many to the Frostback Mountains.

At the gate, Cullen is letting them in. He is dressed strangely, though Dorian cannot quite put his finger on what is so strange about it. Different. Darker? Cullen acknowledges him solemnly when Dorian approaches, gripping his arm and nodding. “Good that you’ve returned Dorian.”

“Finally someone in Skyhold who can beat you at chess.” Dorian quips and instantly feels that something is wrong. Has he said that before?

Cullen smiles, “I’ll let you win if you like.”

“Why are all these people here Cullen?”

“The procession.” Cullen’s brow furrows, his eyes questioning. Dorian feels like this is answer enough, as if he should know what that means. “Go in, Dorian, find the others.”

Dorian enters the keep and inside he finds Blackwall leaning against the stone of the gateway.

“Dorian, there you are. We’ve been waiting for your return.”

“I’m looking for the Inquisitor, have you seen him?”

Blackwall tilts his head, eyes narrowing, “He’s in the Keep. Everyone is waiting.”

“He does like to make an entrance, its true.” Dorian nods, waving his thanks and pressing on through the crowds.

As he moves to the stairs, cast in shadow from the bridge above Cole appears in the empty path. “Cole I’m looking for the Inquisitor…”

“I’ve wanted to ask you something Dorian, when your father cast the spell, the red one, how could you tell?”

Dorian flinches, Cole is always one for unexpected questions. “He never finished the ritual, I found out and I left.”

“Many eyes, can’t break free, did you always have spies?”

“Oh yes, everyone’s spying for someone in Tevinter. Leliana would go positively mad with inadequacy.”

Cole nods solemnly, “But how would you be able to tell if he tried again?”

“Well, that’s why I left Tevinter.” Dorian shakes his head, feeling foggy, “Blood rituals usually require the subject to participate, and you have to acquire their blood…”

“But not the Inquisitor.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Blood magic affected him from far away…”

“But I don’t have a phylactery…”

“Just a sample. From a cut, from a scrape, preserve, enchant– “ Cole is suddenly looming, advancing on Dorian now, and causing him to stumble back.

“No, I…” Dorian shakes his head to clear it, gaining some measure of clarity, “back demon.” He brandishes his staff and Cole recoils. “You are not my friend… you are a different spirit…”

Cole stares ruefully, hands at his sides, itching towards the dagger there. He tilts his head, eyes hidden under the brim of his ridiculous floppy hat.

“Let me pass.” Dorian raises his staff, coaxing a white light from it and directing the light into the shadows. Cole is gone.

Dorian continues up toward the keep.

The upper courtyard is as packed with people as below, streaming out of the tavern and the other buildings. Dorian feels himself searching for familiar signs – Cassandra sparring with The Iron Bull maybe, Sera perched on the roof of the tavern or outlined in the second story window – but there is nothing there. It is all changed. It is all different. It suddenly becomes clear to him that the banners hanging from the walls are black. Why are they black?

Up the stairs, pushing past the strangers and trying not to stumble, to walk with confidence. Just outside the doors to the keep, he sees him – Trevelyan. Standing like an invisible shadow, seemingly unfazed by the people pushing past him -- and oh, Dorian wants to embrace him so. He reaches out, _Amatus_ , surprised and gratified to find the other man is as solid as ever. And they’re touching and they’re grasping and they’re holding. Dorian grips him close and inhales deeply of him, hands reaching up to feel his hair and the square strength of his unbending shoulders.

 _“Amatus_ , I – I’ve been looking!”

“You found me Dorian.” and the gratitude, the thankfulness shines in his eyes like an unspoken prayer. 

“You must come with me. We must leave this place.”

Trevelyan pulls away slightly, peering quizzically back, the same unbelieving expression worn by Cullen and Blackwall, _don’t you know?_ “I can’t leave.”

“You can, I will help you, and we’ll break whatever spell …”

“No, you don't understand Dorian. you’re too late.”

Dorian blanks at that, he grips Trevelyan’s arms and tries to pull him back towards the courtyard, against the flow of people. “No…”

“Yes Dorian. Just … too late. I’ll show you.” Trevelyan pulls him in the opposite direction, up towards the keep, and Dorian finds his strength wavering. His stomach twisting with apprehension, the black banners – all the people.

“Trevelyan… Garret, please?” He is begging, _let this work, let yourself be freed, do not confirm what I do not want to see_.

“I’ll show you.” The strength seems to drain from Dorians limbs and he can protest no more, allowing the inquisitor to lead him through the massive doors of Skyhold. Once inside it becomes all too clear.

The people from the road, the courtyard, they are filing into the keep and squeezing into every corner, bowed, just their backs visible, all a low line of black clad civilians come to pay their respects. At the top of the room, on the dais where the Inquisition throne normally sits there is a great coffin instead. It has gold inlaid in the etched carvings and at the end, facing the crowds, the gold eye of the inquisition with the sword through the center. Dorian feels his breath hitch and his ribs contract. His mouth opens but words immediately fail him.

Trevelyan turns to Dorian, his eyes hooded and dark. “You understand?”

Dorian feels as though his legs will give way, his hands shaking as he reaches for the Inquisitors arm. When he manages to speak, his voice trembles. “I have to prevent this, I can still prevent this.”

“You tried, Dorian, but you failed.”

“No, there’s still time, I can bring you back!”

“It’s too late.” Trevelyan shakes his hands off and backs away, “Was I not there for you Dorian? With your father? With Alexius? When I needed you, you weren’t there.”

Trevelyan shifts suddenly from beside Dorian to the front of the hall, standing over the coffin like a statue. Dorian stumbles forward, reaching. As he does, the crowds part down the center to create a path. He hears their whispers clawing through his mind; _“There he is! The Tevinter Magister.” ”They say the Herald of Andraste trusted him. They say he loved him.” “But where was he?” “Blood magic. That’s what I heard.” “Of course, he’s Tevinter.” “He probably killed the Inquisitor himself” “he should hang!” “Hang for murdering the Herald of Andraste!” “blood mage!”_

Dorian stumbles to the foot of the dais and falls to his knees. “ _Amatus_ , please, I…” But there is no man standing there, just the open coffin and the still, expressionless face of the Inquisitor – the light filtering through the stained glass windows filling his face with the dancing colors of midnight and dawn.

A voice in Dorians head. _Do you understand where you are, what I am?_

He spins around just as a hand clamps down on his chest, white searing pain as the demon tries to break him apart --

Dorian jolts awake, maybe he is calling out, maybe he is gasping, it is all a blurry mess and the room is hanging still with lyrium and Dorian just – wants -- air.

Cullen’s hands find him in the dark and he tries to help -- to reassure -- but Dorian has no patience for it. He shrugs the hands off and stumbles towards the balcony doors, throwing them open he is grateful for the sting of the cold night air and the rush of blood to the surface of his skin in response. He staggers to the edge of the balcony and grips the stone with pale knuckles. He breaths, deeply, the cold making him gag as it hits the back of his throat, but the painful contraction of his lungs is a wanted distraction from the aching in his head.

Cullen stands awkwardly in the doorway, waiting for Dorian to speak but it is a long time until he can form the words.

“It didn’t work.”

“I know.”

“It should have been his dream – I would have found him there but – nothing.”

“I’ll tell the others you’ll be leaving for Denerim in the morning.”

Dorian doesn’t answer as Cullen leaves, suddenly alone with only the Inquisitors still form in the room and the whisper of the lyrium, the memory of the dream. He rubs furiously at his face with icy hands. Sinks to the cold stone floor and trembles against himself. He sits there for some time, unable to return to the room where he will be reminded of the body in the coffin.

It wasn’t the Inquisitors dream, it was his.

Not the Inquisitors fear – but his own.

Dorian does not even consider remaining in Skyhold. Part of him, the part of him that feels the guilt like a dripping wound, feels as though his duty would be to protect the Inquisitors body, to be there, if he were to wake. But the act of sitting at the bedside of his love, of watching – should the worst come to pass – is unthinkable. He cannot do it. He will not do it. If someone is going to locate the phylactery and disrupt the blood magic, well they will probably need a mage anyhow.

Leliana announces she is to leave for Val Royeaux to seek her audience with Divine Victoria, but before she does, she takes Dorian aside.

“Some time ago, I had agents dedicated to finding the Inquisitors Phylactery. Ultimately, it was decided that for the good of all the mages, the phylacteries were better off lost. The secret of their location having perished at the Conclave like so much else. I am sorry I did not try harder – but it was not known then how they could be used to harm. When the Inquisitor fell ill, there is much we failed to consider or connect. Now that we know his condition could have been triggered remotely, I have reassessed several reports from across Thedas.”

“This is the part where you tell me exactly where to look and who’s to blame, hmm?”

“Not quite, but perhaps a place to start. Two days before the Inquisitor succumbed; a Tevinter Magister appeared in Denerim. He stayed three nights in the Royal Palace as a diplomatic emissary and he used your name to gain entrance there.”

“My name?”

“Indeed. He claimed to be an associate of yours, and a friend to the Inquisition. What I do not know is _his_ name. My agent in the palace was kept from the proceedings, what they have is only rumor and whisper.”

“I don’t see how this helps me.” Dorian huffs.

“We shall see. My agents will find you when you arrive in Denerim. Perhaps they know more.”

The question of who will accompany Dorian to Denerim hangs in the air. Of course everyone wants to take action. No one wants to be left behind. Cullen agrees he must stay, lead the troops, maintain the inquisitions presence – but there is arguing amongst the others. In the end, the rag tag group of misfits decide to set out together sans only the Commander and Cole.

_I can stay and talk to him for you Dorian._

_Thank you Cole._

 


	6. Last Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short, stolen moment before we return to the journey.

Early morning light filters through the glass of the balconies paneled doors.

Crystal refractions dance through the room, the light is magical. The mountains beyond sing with it. It is warm and bright as an embrace.

Inside the Inquisitors chambers, the air is still, heavy and warm. A fire burns low, crackling and wheezing with its last breaths. Dorian thinks to add another few logs before he leaves, as though that bit of extra warmth might make a difference to the still figure in the expanse of the bed.

He hesitates by the door. Bags packed, no reason to stay. The others must be waiting for him by now, all eager to be doing something productive. To be helping again. Still, Dorian can’t bring himself to step out the room.

Setting down his bag and leaning his staff in the frame of the door he moves back into the chamber.

How strange he should feel so nervous, so unsure. He reminds himself of the fact that his lover neither sees nor hears his fumbling.  He sits on the edge of the bed, eyes wandering everywhere but to the composed, silent face. Squinting to read the spines of the books on the shelf in the corner, _abysmal taste, love. I’ll bring some better titles by…_

He sighs, a long, shuddering sigh that when expelled leaves him feeling raw and empty. When he feels he can fill that space again he clears his throat.

“Cole seems to think you can hear… that talking might … help.” Awkward this. Shifting on the bed, trying to keep composure and distance from the situation, then finally allowing his eyes to settle on the still face of his love. Hand moving reflexively to touch, to feel.

“I don’t often speak … exactly what’s on my mind. It’s easy to joke, because joking keeps us distant, but I would have us be… a little closer now.

Every day I’ve been gone has been an exercise in agony. I have lived for your letters, every word on the page and scrap of news. I have often wished you were more of a gossip. Imagine how things would have been different if it were Josie writing." He grapples with the things he wants to -- needs to -- say.

"You have… inspired me, _Amatus_. You have made me want to be … better. This last year I have been trying. How easy you make It look! Hand all aglow, darkspawn and archdemon falling before you, and all before breakfast hmm? I have managed… maybe I have managed to change something. A few minds perhaps, a few fates. But I would give all that to have been here when you needed me. I would give it all away to protect you from further harm. I love you.”

His breath hitches, his shoulders slump. “Even if all goes well… I will not be here when you wake. If … I want you to know… _when_ you are returned to us… that I’ll be here soon. Let Josephine fuss over you a bit in my absence.”

He stoops to kiss the still lips, the arches of his cheeks, the closed eyes. He hovers there, close, and when he finally pulls away his eyes betray the depth of his affection with more accurate clarity then any words he might compose.

“If it doesn’t… go well in Denerim, I would ask you to wait for me. Hold on… until I return. Wait for me _Amatus_ , that is all I ask.”

Cole will say he's made it better, healed a hurt. That Dorian has _helped._ But his heart is raw and laid bare, and he doesn't feel better at all.


	7. The Road Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A vint, a Tal’Vashoth, a murderer and an elf.

The first night they make camp Blackwall inadvertently gives up a secret.

All of them around the fire, Sera telling some mirthless joke in an attempt to sweeten the decidedly foul mood – “Josie was so mad, she said we had to stay in the castle for a month  ‘cause that’s how long it would take for the ink to wear off.”

This elicits a couple chuckles and a few shakes of the head, Blackwall scoffs, “Not that we could have left anyway.”

Bull returns to his mead with a huff and Sera sighs wistfully. Dorian cocks an eyebrow, “What do you mean Blackwall?”

“Just that none of us have left Skyhold in months.” He shrugs, “not since all this started.”

“All this?”

“The threats, assassination attempts, Inquisitor could barely step outside the Frostbacks without having an arrow shot at his head.”

“Since when?” Dorians tone is no longer conversational, his sudden seriousness makes everyone uncomfortable and Blackwall is decidedly less interested in continuing the discussion.

“Nothing new there I suppose…”

Dorian turns on the others. “Something you lot would like to say?”

"It’s nothing Dorian. Just a general uptick in violence.”

“We spent a year fighting darkspawn magisters! What in Andrastes name does an uptick in violence mean?”

“Less to inquisit... more to try and kill you?” Sera tries but that seems to rile Dorian more.

“I’m sorry, just what kind of assassination attempts are we talking about? And by whom?”

“Ahh, arrows, poisen, poisoned arrows, couple daggers up close…” Bull lists.

“But only a few of them hit ‘im.” Sera mumbles.

“I’m sorry, some of these poisoned artifacts actually made contact with the Inquisitor?”

“Ya,” Bull admits, shrugging, “but he’s tough! Never kept him down long!”

“’Till Leliana and Cullen decided to restrict comings and goings…” Blackwall sighs.

“Being stuck in the castle was fuckin’ depressing.” Sera moans.

“And none of you thugs thought to write me? Tell me about the poisoned arrows my … _ugh_.” Dorian trails off.

Then Blackwall steps in it – “The inquisitor told us…” His face grows pale and he ducks his eyes away.

“Told you what?” Dorian’s grey eyes have a dangerous glint in them.

“Ugh,” Bull grumbles, “The Boss said happy news going to the Vint only.”

“None of you wrote me at all!” He glares around the fire in disbelief for a moment before he draws an implication. “So the reason none of you wrote was because you were restricted to writing only good things… and there were none to report. Fantastic. You certainly paint my absence in the best light, I don't know if I should be flattered or incensed. ”

Blackwall sighs with resignation and takes a drink. "Seems like you've decided..."

“He didn’t want you getting all sappy and comin’ home early or something.” Sera gestures.

“Because my resolve is so low.”

“This sounds like an argument for kissy faces.” Sera pulls a pinched lip face at Dorian and spits.

“Yes, well my _lover_ is not in any shape to _argue_ at the moment.”

Having no response to that, and being displeased with the turn of conversation, Sera throws a potion on the fire and disappears.

"Sera that is not what those are for!”

“ _PHhhhhhffffft_.”

When the smoke clears, the elf is gone and Blackwall is following close behind. Dorian grumbles angrily as he brushes dirt off the front of his robes. Bull looks disappointingly down into the ashy mess of his drink and shrugs before finishing it off. He lumbers up and turns to the tents, looking back at Dorian long enough to offer, “He didn’t think you should worry.”

“Well it looks like he thought wrong.” Bull has no answer, and Dorian is left alone.

He thinks back to the letters he exchanged from across Thedas with his lover, had Trevelyan ever mentioned being injured? Fearing for his life? Not in so many words. Perhaps it was there, veiled with pleasantries and posturing. If Dorian had read between the lines -- he would have come back sooner. He would have given up on Tevinter and called it a day, _Sorry world. I'm needed elsewhere_. Precisely the reaction Trevelyan wanted to avoid. _Damn him._

That night he dreams again.

This is not a lyrium-induced trance, not a true journey into the fade, his body sleeps, his mind restless.

In the dream he is running, running as fast as he can push his body. His lungs are burning and his ribs aching. He knows instinctively he is trying to return to Skyhold, to fulfill his promise.

_Wait for me._

Just like the lyrium dream, when he arrives at the Keep the funeral procession has already begun. The mourners already arrived.

* * *

 

The next day they press onward, and the next. At times it seems like they never will -- but eventually they do -- arrive in Denerim.

Sera is the only one among them particularly pleased.

Well, she vacillates dramatically and viscerally between pleased and petrified. Of course, this does not seem very odd to Dorian and it’s The Iron Bull that reminds him Sera was raised here.

“ _Agh,_ you still have big fat dossier type things on all us?” Sera mocks.

“I’m not Ben-Hassrath anymore.”

“But you kept the secret spy-stuff right?”

Bull indicates his horned head, “all up here.”

“Well ya, I’m from here. Much as anyone’s from anywhere. That’s why I got to pick the place we’re staying.”

Dorian raises his eyebrows, “you did what?”

“I picked out our inn. Big squishy beds for your delicate butt, don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry, what? We let her do that? We’re not staying in the Royal palace?”

“A vint, a Tal’Vashoth, a murderer and an elf.” Bull grumbles.

“Not an elf.”

“You’re an elf.”

“I see your point.” Dorian sighs.

“Besides it would be all golden and glistening and – wrong.” Sera spits, “Hate it.”

“One of these days, Sera, I will have to show you what a real bed is like.”

“Cheeky.”

Denerim is a depressing. It might be the filthiest city Dorian has ever seen. Of course, he has never been to Kirkwall, small mercies abound. If Varric were here – but he isn’t. So Dorian keeps this thought to himself.

He suspects Denerim would be quite lovely if one were to visit some of the more affluent areas, the royal palace perhaps, or Fort Drakon, but Sera is leading them down dusty brown, packed dirt streets and into a few suspicious alleyways and she is muttering the whole time like a half cocked loon and it’s all Dorian can do to keep from throwing up his hands in defeat. Bull seems quite unconcerned, and even Blackwall – who might have some notion of fine living from a previous life – seems to have little care.

Eventually she leads them to a tavern and inn far off the well traveled path, some distance from the market district where there are several places that looked better preserved than this. It’s called the _Murky Cask_. Excellent. Dorian considers how lucky he is to have an iron stomach and few remaining taste buds.

Inside the establishment is as brown and worn as the exterior, besides that, it is empty. The only face being that of the proprietor who appears to be spending his time whittling shapes into the surface of the bar with a pocket knife.

When a Tevinter altus, elven archer, murderous thug and Tal’Vashoth walk into the bar, _not a joke_ , Dorian reminds himself, the man looks up blearily and has the decency to give them a proper stare. Sera ambles up and plops a coin purse in front of him. She mutters something Dorian does not hear and he finds himself stifling a yawn. When the transaction appears complete, Sera leads them up a narrow flight of stairs to a row of rooms over the kitchen.

“One for us each.” She passes out a string of keys.

“So what now Boss?” Bull asks and all eyes turn to Dorian.

He shifts uncomfortably, unused to being the ‘boss’ of this little group. “If I knew that, what would we need the inquisitor for?” No one is laughing. “Right. Leliana seemed to think her agents might have some new information and that they will be able to find us…” He gives the inn a disproving glance, “wherever it is Sera has stowed us away.”

“They’ll find us just fine. You're so dramatic.” Sera chuckles to herself.

“We need information.”

“I might be able to help with that.” Sera ponders, head tilted in thought and mouth screwed up at the corner.

“Not usually a good sign.” Blackwall mutters.

“Do you have some of your infamous… friends … in Denerim?” Dorian wants to know and Sera is smiling again, eyes veiled.

“You might say. You’d be wrong, but you might say. Should know something though, always knows something.”

“Alright, some of us should stay and wait to hear from Lelianas agents, some of us should track down Sera's friends…”

“Oh no,” She waves her hands vigorously, “if they’re gonna tell me anything I have to go alone. Got a contact in the alienage and you three...” She looks pointedly from Dorian to Blackwall to Bull, “Would abso – freakin – lutely not be welcome.”

“I thought the alienage in Denerim was abandoned?” Dorian recalls hearing something about how bad it was during the fifth blight, darkspawn and unrest – not to mention Tevinter slavers.

“It’s not good, never been good, but as long as there are elves who want to belong somewhere elfy there will be ones that think they belong all walled up.” Sera tries to explain, “my contact, he’ll still be there.”

“OK, so Sera is going there, and we’re…”

“Gonna wait.” She points at a table nearby, “sit your butts down. I’ll be back.”

Although time is of the essence – and he hasn’t forgotten – the relief of having completed several days journey and have the chance to sit in an actual chair is tempting enough to sway Dorian. 

So he agrees to wait. 

What exactly he's waiting for is a question best answered with a drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little in between - travelly chapter. Forgive me, I wanted it to be better but I can't wait to get to the next one!


	8. Friends in Low Places

Back allies dirty and brown, sun blotted out by looming apartments, jagged reaching buildings leaning this way and that, the poor, down trodden -- trodden all down, and left in the dirt.

Sera hates Denerim.

The alienage especially. There is the faint memory –- at the distantly curled recesses of her subconscious -- in which she has parents. Back then, Denerim was still a shit hole. Especially for the elves. Everyone and everything from darkspawn to city guards wanted to take a piss on the elves and the occupants of the alienage were all too happy to be victims, always victims. By the time they tried to fight back at all -– it was far too late. Sera got out of that life early, not through happy providence but through loss. Always loss, loss and more losing. People, things, pieces of importance like heritage and history. Things Sera didn’t want back, didn’t try to find. Keep the puzzle to yourself, the pictures not worth making.

There are some things she's OK remembering. A rebellious adolescence spent fighting against her human upbringing. Returning to the alienage, working as a spy, an agent. Learning how to sneak around and plant information where it hurts. Learning how to do her work. Sera burned a lot of bridges in Denerim, most of them twice, but she has one that might be intact enough to help her now.

More surprising, that she considers the Inquisitor worth helping. Authority -– especially the religious, jewel-encrusted kind -– is not something she usually abides, but the Inquisitor is somehow different and he needs her as a reminder of the little people who need protecting. To keep him _real_. Would be a horrible shame to undo all the work she has done, have some other, less-real butt take the Inquisitors throne. That’s why she’s helping. Sera does know one or two things about _friends_ after all.

It isn’t until she sees the alienage that she realizes just how far it’s gone. The hovels and shacks that make up the homes, the run down streets and apartments have only gotten worse. Burned out, burned down, and merely patched in places where they should have been dismantled and rebuilt. There is still the black of char spidering up the walls of many buildings from fights and wars and deaths. There aren't any people in the streets, doors boarded up and just a few eyes staring through cracks in the windows.

_And the shitty gets shittier._

A Black door stands out among the entrances to the other hovels. Paint peeling. She knocks. Anxious, shifting her weight left and right, looking over her shoulder and not quite prepared for the response. The door swings open and strong hands clamp down on her shoulders and pull her inside. Her bow is out before her feet find purchase.

“Do not notch an arrow, Mouse.”

“ _Blek_ ,” She spits, “I do what I want.”

Her contact, former boss –- Matches -- big bad guy with pointed elf ears evident through the braids of red hair, emerges from the shadows of the room. He's as shady as ever and trying on his intimidation face. “Not in my house. Last I heard you were in Orlais – Val Royeaux, wreaking havoc with your new _friends_.”

“Well, I got a better offer, right?”

“And what brings you back to this piss hole.” Not a question, Sera wants to strangle him.

“I have a guy – he wants to know some things. You know things. So I’m here.”

“And what things do you suppose I know?”

“Blood magic. Someone in Denerim is doing it and it needs to stop. A Tevinter passed through Denerim –- sounds like they’re connected, ya? You know whatever happens ‘round here. Pay to know maybe, but the info is right.”

“Blood magic.” Matches runs his tongue over the surface of his teeth, eyes drifting to focus somewhere beyond Sera as he connects some previously unconnected dots. He waves his hands and the thugs beside her back off. She doesn’t stow her bow away, keeps it in her hand. Might not be space or time for arrows, but bows can bludgeon too. “I might have something.” The red headed elf finally says. He’s a shady one, you might think his hair and his moniker are connected but Sera knows different. People who cross Matches lose more than their eyebrows. Burn more than bridges.

“What will it cost me?”

“You must mean, what will it cost the Inquisition?”

_Dammit._

“You have a problem with people who hack up darkspawn Magisters and patch holes in the sky?” She growls.

“Not generally. I do, however, have a problem with authority -– and the inquisition has become one.”

“Not my problem.” She waves a hand.

“Could be.” He considers her for a few seconds, stalling to see if she’ll start to sweat, but Sera isn’t the girl she once was -– she’s faced down a lot worse. “Fine, let’s talk.”

He motions for her to follow, and they move deeper into the run down house. They exit through a back door and Matches leads her into the alley, quietly and without words, eyes flitting back and forth watching for something. Sera is reminded of the signs she used to see around the alienage, _“elves that carry swords will die by them”._ She hasn’t seen any city guards, but that doesn’t mean no one is watching. They stop in front of a smaller hovel, and Matches knocks softly on the door. After a few moments, it opens a crack and he pushes through.

“Harlhen, you must talk to us.”

“No, please, I told you all I know!”

Sera follows inside and is repulsed at the stench of rotting food and filthy living. Harlhen is a miserable looking, middle aged elf who looks like he’s lived through the worst life can offer. His face is a map of small scars and broader pains. He is both strong willed and cowering as Matches tries to sit him down forcefully.

“I just need to go over it again, with … Sera here.” Sera cocks an eyebrow and waves awkwardly from the door.

Harlhen squints at her, “why would I talk to her?”

Matches rolls his eyes with a sigh, “she’s from here. And she represents the Inquisition.”

The colour seems to drain out of the ragged elf’s face and he allows himself to be bent into the chair. He wipes at his face absently, “the Inquisition? In Denerim?”

“Ah, not really representing it so much as… piss, I’m just asking questions for a friend, ya?”

“But why do you… care?”

“Whatever happened to you Harlhen, it’s still happening out there. We can’t move on till we’ve put it to rest, OK?” Matches is surprisingly tender with the older man and Sera has a moment of pity for them both. Never got out like her, never escaped. Just trying to hold each other together by mashing up against everything else.

Harlhen is pale and Sera just wants to leave. Let Dorian figure this out, let Leliana come through. But Matches seems determined now and he steps back and nods for Sera to approach. She does, furrowing the side of her nose against the offending smells of the hovel. She’s getting too used to Skyhold and the people there, forgetting how the regular people live. She lowers herself gingerly into a chair across from Harlhen.

“I’m looking for a blood mage.” She encourages.

“A… a blood mage?” Harlhen looks back to Matches and then Sera, mouth open. “I don’t know…”

“Stop,” Matches hisses, “we all know what Cyrhel did. You don't owe him anything any more. Just tell her.”

Harlhen clears his throat painfully and launches into the story. “Cyrhel was born here, but captured and sold into slavery in Tevinter when he was just a boy. I don’t know how he did it, but at some point he escaped and returned to the alienage. When he arrived it was not what he remembered. He was … angry and bitter and … mean. But I remembered him from when we were boys, before he was taken. There was a group of us that knew each other and maybe we felt guilty that he was taken and we were not. He didn’t talk about what happened to him in Tevinter, he didn’t talk about… anything from before. But he hated the mages, and he hated the Templars, he hated everyone but us. We were all he had. The Mage-Templar war brought out the worst in him. He was so angry. That’s when we started to notice things, he … would burn things. Turn things to ash when he thought we weren’t looking. He … he was an apostate.”

Harlhen pauses nervously, maybe noticing Sera’s discomfort. She can’t help it, it’s a common tale she’s heard before, one that never ends well. “After what happened, the breach in the sky, Matches heard about those… Tevinter mages in Denerim. Some Red Templars too, they were … looking for something. Cyrhel was determined to track their movements, figure out what they wanted. He did it, tracked them for weeks and even killed some of them. Found a warehouse where they were using magic and tried to convince us to go with him. Most of us refused. But he came back… said he found something important. Something that would change… everything.”

Sera nods in encouragement, her head bobbing quickly – _too encouraging? Get on with it, tell me the end_.

“So he waited awhile. A long time, as if he was waiting for something. Then out of nowhere, he says we need to do something about it. He told a Templar in the city, asked her to come and see this magic … thing. That it might be worth her time. Got a group of us together, all us who had been kids, we decided to check it out. He took us to the warehouse he mentioned; in the basement was a big ol’ door. He convinced the Templar to open it with him and then he …” Harlhen muffles a chocked sob, looking from Matches to Sera and back. “He killed the Templar. A … man… magister from Tevinter was there and they were killing everyone. I… escaped.”

He pulls up his pant leg to show Sera a red angry, half-healed burn seared up his calf. “That’s all I know, it’s been weeks now… a month or more? And … no word. I think I was the only one who got out.”

Sera questions him, poking softly and not trying to step in the pain of it, gets as many directions as she can from him, although his path from the warehouse back to the alienage was fraught with fear and remains hazy in his mind. When she doesn’t think she can get any more information from poor Harlhen she ducks out of the hovel and breaths deeply the – slightly different stench – of the alleyway instead.

Before long Matches appears beside her, leaning in the doorway.

"Why didn't you go after them?" Seras lip curls with disdain, _why'd you let it go so long._

"Me and what army." He scoffs. "Demons, blood magic -- sounds like your kind of work. You’re different now Mouse.”

“Haven’t I told you not to call me that, I’m SERA, S – E – R— A…”

“Yes, Sera. I know.” He rolls his eyes at her, an expression that makes her sick with a kind of nostalgia. Not the good kind.

“Why’d you ever call me that anyway?”

“Because,” he shrugs, “You look like a fucking mouse. Does it have to mean something?”

Sera shakes her head, dispelling the image of the shaggy blonde girl, small for her age, _knife ears_ sticking up between the straw of of her hair all wild and tangled. She was gangly, unsure. Everyone she knew had hurt her. “I think you called me that because you wanted to make me little. You can’t do that to me anymore.”

“No.” He sighs, “I suppose not.”

“All this … You’ve given me a lot to go on. Thanks, I guess.” She rubs her neck absently.

“I’m trying to make the alienage safe again. I didn’t do it for you – or your friends.”

“Right. Piss off.”

“This information is going to cost you.”

“You mean the Inquisition. I’ll put you in touch.”

“Thought you didn’t represent them?”

“Only when someone has to pay.” She makes a show of walking away, wondering if this will really be the last time.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explainy-bits! Bit of an original character here, and writing Sera is both difficult and fun I guess?


	9. Chapter 9

The inn is dark as it is solemn.

Dorian has been drinking, although not as heavily as he might have liked. The proprietor had at some point deserted him, deciding to go to bed and leaving Dorian to himself. Bull had drunk with him for a while before also retiring, and Blackwall had made only a few appearances since they arrived. Dorian assumes he is doing the intelligent thing and catching up on sleep … the kind that happens in actual beds and not on some cobbled bed of dirt.

The ale at the inn is… white. Yellowed in flavor only. Piss water. Of course, that does not stop Dorian from imbibing. An activity that has been sorely absent from his routine since his hasty departure from Val Dorma. In fact, this might be the first collection of hours in more than a month that Dorian has not been either on the road or racing around pointlessly. Has it been so long since he received the letter from Leliana? Two weeks here, another there – the possibility of Trevelyans demise ever present in his thoughts. Even now, blurred as it may be around the edges, his mind traces back to his lovers tranquil, unchanging face.

He shakes his head, trying to dispel the image, when the door to the inn opens softly and a woman enters.

She is dressed simply and without adornments – average in all respects. Dorian finds his eyebrow frozen two inches above its natural place and attempts to right himself should … something… happen. The woman looks around for a moment, seems to be satisfied, and approaches Dorian with caution. “I don’t think you could have chosen a more secluded location.” She smiles, “an excellent move. Altus Dorian Pavus?”

“Right, that’s me, I chose it. Who are you?”

The woman inclines her head, keeping an eye on Dorian as she bows. She speaks very softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “I am Maeve, an agent of the Nightingale.”

“Ahhh, Leliana!” He thrums his fingers on the table, an action that seems downright thunderous in the empty room. “Glad you found us. Well… me. We were hoping you might know…” He trails off, widening his eyes, “something.”

If she is surprised by his manner, she does not let on. Maeve sits across from him at the table and leans towards him so her voice remains low. “The Nightingale expressed interest in some information. A cycle and half has passed in the sky since, but I have been piecing together what I can – at the apex of winter a Tevinter Magister arrived in Denerim.”

“Yes… Leliana said something to that effect.” He shifts, forcing the dim fog of drink from his thoughts. “I need a name.”

“And I have one. Magister Gaius Senilis.”

Dorians first reaction is a sigh of relief. Somehow, he had thought – but no. He had been sure it was his father. How childish of him, _how rote,_ he thought if a magister was causing him this pain – it would be Halward Pavus.

His second reaction is to squint across at Maeve, his mind racing, suddenly aware of his fatigue – where have I heard that name?

“Magister Senilis claimed to be a follower of yours,” She tells him; “coming to pay his respects in Ferelden and visit the birthplace of Andraste. He met with the kings advisors, but I am told, not the king himself. He spent three nights in an inn near Fort Drakon, and then he left Denerim as suddenly as he arrived. No one is aware of what other business he may have conducted here. We attempted to have him followed – but there are gaps in those records.” She passes him a piece of parchment with notes scribbled across it, times of day and the corresponding actions taken by the magister.

“Any … disappearances in the city? People missing?” Dorian is unsure of how much he should give away to the agent, how much information she might have and not realize she possesses.

“Disappearances?” Maeves eyebrows furrow for a moment as she considers. “No. Not in the city. Not reported to the guard.” Dorian begins to nod as he reads the notes. “Wait…” Maeve starts, “One Templar, around the same time as the Magisters departure. She was off duty, left the fort and did not return. A small search party was dispatched but … there is continued unrest among the new order and when no trace was found, it was assumed she deserted.”

“Do Templars often … leave like that? Cut off from Lyrium…”

“There are many suppliers now that mages live more freely, it would not be unheard of.”

“Anything else out of the ordinary?”

Maeve shakes her head, stands, bows. “If that is all, ser.”

Dorian nods. Folds the parchment and watches the woman leave. He takes a last sip of his ale and grimaces. Gaius Senilis. Where did he… _ah_.

It hits Dorian like a punch to the gut and the ale goes sour in his stomach. Senilis was indeed, one of his followers. A member of his tender young movement against the Imperium. A supporter. A spy? An infiltrator? Alternatively, one more example of a Tevinter magister whose principles and their execution did not quite align. He had come to Ferelden and used Dorians name to carry out whatever dark purpose led to the Inquisitors current state.

He had, _what_ , endeared himself to Dorians cause just enough that he would know – _kaffas_ – what role the Inquisitor played in Dorians redemption? The inspiration for his grand revolution. The nail on which Dorians world hinged.

Had Dorians mask slipped – even once – while he talked of his time in the South?

_Ah yes, Inquisitor Trevelyan – a fine man._

_He has a gravitas other leaders struggle to possess, you should see him making judgements from his throne – yes he has a throne – you should visit sometime._

_Why, yes, I do occasionally miss the South._

_There are none finer then the people of the Inquisition, present company excluded._

_His actions I hope, speak louder than any endorsement from me._

_Yes, he did really walk out of the fade, close the breach and banish an ancient magister dark spawn back to the fade. Yes, he really did._

When did Dorian cement the betrayal of his love? Did he give it away with a glance? The way he reached for the letters as they arrived from Skyhold, was it his dammed eyes as he spoke?

Perhaps it was nothing Dorian did himself and the rumors were enough. He had fielded many questions in his time at home, had answered with roundabout lies that covered and concealed.

He had laughed in the face of several angry magisters when they insinuated something else, something incorrect. They were all off the mark anyway; the Inquisitor and Dorian were _in love_ , and that was one thing the rumors always got wrong.

Dorian wants to rage, wants to smash things and burn things and _what has he learned so far but the name of the man he will have to kill_?

Everything he’s done – gone without sleep, or rest, pushed himself this far and stretched himself this thin – and what will he gain? Another failure.

He knocks the empty mug over as he stands and stumbles his way up the stairs to his room. Fumbles with the key in the lock and winces as the room shakes with the force of him closing the door.

He upends one of his packs and sifts through the items. There is a collection of papers – his most treasured possessions – stacks of folded, worn letters with broken red seals. His lovers words to him over this last year, words of encouragement, of support. Half-veiled innuendo, jokes and merciless jibes. You are dreadful. I hate you. _You are an inspiration and I love you_. He repeats the words to himself angrily, scolding. _Why could you not say what you mean_?

After the rage passes he drifts in and out of memory and dream; whenever his body jolts awake, he is surprised to find himself still folded on the floor not in the bed but next to it. He considers moving – but falls back asleep.

In the dream, he is burning, fire all around him and bubbling inside him like his skin is a burning glyph. It is searing pain. It is release.

Around him are members of the inquisition – they are taunting him; they are asking him, _why? Why would you betray us like this? You thought Tevinter worth saving but at what cost_?

Dorian burns them all.

The moon is still high in the sky when Sera shakes him awake. She is impatient, “Dorian – Dorian!”

“Yes, Sera.” He bats her away, blearily trying to collect the letters scattered around him. Sera doesn’t seem to care, she doesn’t even glance at them. Maybe this is on purpose; Dorian doesn't have time to decide.

Blackwall appears in the doorway, buckling his coat and Dorian realizes Bull is already in the room, arms folded and looking impassive as always.

“I have something." Sera, excitedly tells him, "I know where the Phylacte-whatsies are.”


	10. Immolate, Glyph, Burn.

“A Tevinter Magister and a blood mage.” Blackwall shakes his head, “no telling what might be waiting down there.”

“Demons I suspect. Wards, traps. All possible.” Dorian, composed, considering -– cold. The end of the journey finally seems to be within reach and there is very little left of him but resolve and the cold receding waves of a headache.

This new information Sera has brought them dispels some of his earlier guilt, it's possible the motivations of their enemy had nothing to do -- _is it possible --_ with the Inquisitor. Fear and hurt and pain can make monsters of any man. It could be this is not Dorians fault -- Trevelyan caught in the middle of one mans personal war. 

“If there is an active Templar presence in Denerim -– and they’ve lost one of their own – I think we should contact them.”

“Templars will want know if we find the phylacteries.” Bull agrees. “But it’s easier to ask forgiveness…”

“Then permission? They have no reason to deny us. And if there will be demons and abominations -– we might need their help.”

“Not like we haven’t faced our fair share of those.” Sera is indignant, “why get those pissy temples involved?”

“Yes we know what you think of them.” Blackwall fires back.

“I did just get us our only lead.”

“And we are grateful Sera, but we should be cautious.”

Dorian listens to the arguing with detachment, his mind is already made up. He is finding the inquisitors phylactery, and he’s doing it now. “Sera and I will follow the lead and see if the vault exists,” he intones, “Blackwall and Bull, you go to the Templars. I agree they should be told but listen -– they might want to repossess the phylacteries and I am telling you now that they are being destroyed. As long as they exist, they can be a used as a weapon.”

There are some approving nods, some silent stares. Dorian hardly cares except as it pertains to carrying out his commands. They separate, Bull and Blackwall going towards Ford Drakon and Sera leading Dorian further into the slums.

Sera guides Dorian to the abandoned warehouse as described by Harlhen. It’s rundown, boarded up. Tightly too, with less scarring on the outside from the fires and fighting of the blight. It seems to stand apart from the buildings around it, and yet, were they not looking for it they would think little of it’s presence, like a shadow or a flitting memory of a dream -– always on the edge of your vision.

“Some kind of ward of perception,” Dorian mutters in awe, “If we didn’t know it was here I doubt we would see it at all.”

They find an entry point, recently used, a smear of blood on the boards, and make their way into the warehouse. The inside is filled with dusty crates, a few smashed or falling apart but most covered in spider webs and sitting silent and forgotten. Dorian peers inside one and finds it empty. Along the edges of the room, through the labyrinth of boxes they find a narrow passage and a flight of stone steps leading down. At the bottom of the stairs, a vault door. Dorian recognizes it as Dwarven, intricate and beautiful in its mastery. On each side a small recess for a hand to pass through and touch -– one for a Templar, one for a mage, their powers individually would not be enough but together they could unlock the mechanism.

This door has already been unlocked. It hangs slightly ajar, a sliver of red light drifting hazily through the crack, but over the whole entrance, a spell hangs. Red, swirling and angry -– another ward. “I can disrupt it, but I’ll need a bit of time.” Dorian steps towards it, raising a hand to hover over the surface of the crackling, burning energy.

“OK, we found it, it’s here, we need to get the others.”

“I have to get through…” Dorian is barely paying attention, already summoning mana.

“Dorian,” she grabs his shoulder and turns him towards her with an impatient jerk, “I’m going back for the others.”

“OK.”

“You—” she stabs a finger into his chest, “don’t go in without us. You’ll wind up all dead.”

“Right. Don’t go in. Don’t get dead.”

Sera nods emphatically and bounds back up the stairs, taking them several at a time.

Dorian turns back to the ward, no doubt left as a parting gift by the magister. He summons spells to break it and begins his onslaught.

It takes him about five minutes.

When the ward is shattered and Dorian is huffing, breathless, his mana temporarily exhausted, it occurs to him that this was all a very bad idea and he should probably have waited because now –- now he is alone with a demon.

He can hear it, the shuffling gait as it shifts around inside the chamber, dragging its body over the stone tile with a scraping sound. Dorian is frozen, forgetting to breath as he listens, surely, there is only one demon. How many could have come through the fade in the time since the door was sealed? The elf, certainly an abomination now, but how powerful had he been? The magister, gone and left, sealing up his evil deed as a plaster over a wound – now revealed. What magic had he wrought inside, what damage done to the veil within?

And then there is the problem of Garret. Dorian can feel — almost a magnetic attraction pulling him by inches towards the door — that the Inquisitors phylactery is within. All the days and weeks of questions, the aching and longing soon to be answered. The question always itching beneath Dorians psyche, always clawing at his frayed edges whilst away from Skyhold–- did the Inquisitor still live? Would this all be for naught? The answer… mere feet and a possible hoard of demons away.

What harm could come from proceeding?

He pushes the doors of the vault inwards, they hinge miraculously quiet and Dorian thanks the maker for Dwarven artisanship. He moves forwards, slipping through the crack he has succeeded in widening just enough for a man to pass through. Inside the vault, the air is practically stifling, thickened with years of being sealed from the outside – dust and mold – and stirred up now with the stench of recent decay. Immediately there is an iron taste on Dorians tongue and he gags at the rot of it. A few bodies lie near the door, eviscerated and empty, burnt in places.

When he can tear his eyes from the carnage below, Dorian lets out a strangled gasp at what he perceives. The walls are entirely lined with phylacteries. The small, glass vials filled with mage blood refract the red glow that permeates the entire vault, but inside they are idle and dark. No light. No glow. The phylacteries of the living mages have been removed, and all that remains in this chamber are those of the dead. It is hard to comprehend the breadth of the mage – Templar war until you see the sheer numbers of dead and gone set before you.

A narrow opening separates this front chamber from the main vault and Dorian is sharply aware of the slowly building sounds of whatever lies in wait. He steps lightly over smashed glass and viscera to the passage; peering around the corner, he considers his options.

The elf they are looking for, Cyrhel is in the center of the chamber standing over a small mountain of softly glowing phylacteries. But Cyrhel no longer looks like an elf -- he is skin pulled tight and ripping over the bulging of the demon within -– he is red and angry and a mass of flesh. The light of the demon is glowing red from within the pale outer shell; it is twisting and flowing like magma just below the surface. There are other creatures in the chamber besides. Dorian can see three shades and a handful of small wisps. Whatever the magister and the elf did in this chamber – they pulled through demons enough to protect it.

Dorian steadies himself, closing his eyes long enough to concentrate on the slow and precise inhale of breath and then he reaches… deep… down.

Grasping at the tingling edges of his power and pulling it up in a wave that fills him with mana and restores his focus.

Immolate under two of the shades, burning up with a startling force.

They shriek and cast their eyeless faces around to determine the origin of the magic. Dorian steps back into the first chamber and when the demons slink towards him; he casts a wall of fire to block the way back. His fear spells would be useless in this instance so he casts haste, speeding up his movement, casting, and slowing the demons as they approach.

Before they can strike him with their claws, he springs a barrier into place and knocks one of them back with his staff, using it to rain fire down on the other.

Strike, flame, burn.

Barrier, glyph, burn.

Just as the first two shades fall, his wall of fire begins to degrade and through the curtain of ash, two more bear down on him. He has already miscounted, not three shades but four. Hopefully no more.

Haste, immolate, barrier.

Summon back the wall of flame to keep the abomination at bay and lash out with his staff blade to slice at one of the shades.

Glyph, burn, strike.

Immolate, burn, and strike.

His barrier lowers and he is struck by a bloody claw, pain arching across his shoulder and chest from the slash, he gasps, springing the barrier back into place and plunging ahead.

Immolate – burning hot and sweat beading on his forehead now– glyph, strike.

Burn, glyph, strike.

One of the shades falls, shrieking, and the other still assaults Dorian even as the wall of flame begins to fall away, the massive abomination leering beyond the doorway.

Dorian cries out, frustration and anger exploding in his chest he uses fade step to pass the abomination and reappear in the massive interior chamber with a resounding clap. He casts haste around himself and takes a moment to search with his eyes for the phylacteries.

The walls are dotted with glowing vials but the majority of the active ones are corralled in the center of the chamber, red magic arching over their surface – there must be hundreds more like Trevelyan – wasting away under this spell. He can see dots of black in the pile for the ones who have already succumbed. He takes a moment to send a scorching prayer to Andraste requesting that the vial belonging to her herald still glow. Dorian will need to dispel this magic – it will require focus and lyrium – he turns his attention back to the room in time to realize the abomination is bearing down on him.

Its expression is obscured in a mottled distended mass of red flesh – slightly slanted elven eyes scorching out of the strange, unnatural face. He lays a glyph under its feet and it explodes with massive force. The abomination stumbles, lurches forward and Dorian hits it with magic from his staff.

He backs up, using immolate to rain fire down on the abomination and as it approaches, striking it with the bladed end of his staff. Fire spells are doing very little, the demon resistant – Dorian casts about for some other kind of magic, something to save himself.

He tries to keep distance between them, use the staff as a barrier to keep the claws at bay.

Pierce, slash, immolate.

The abomination shouts at him in elven with a too-normal voice, and then in Tevine – _You have lost, you are finished_.

As suddenly as the onslaught began, the abomination is no more – a tired, broken elf standing before him with burns and cuts marking his body, blood dripping from a stab below the ribs. “I thought I had escaped you.” He shrieks and Dorian realizes then -- the elf thinks he is a Tevinter Magister -– another slaver perhaps?

Just another magister come to take what he thinks he is owed.

Dorian has no words for that, the irony of it is insulting. What has he been fighting for in Tevinter if not the freedom of men like this one?

His hesitation lasts just long enough for his barrier to degrade and the abomination reaches out with its claws and sinks them into Dorians shoulders, one in each side. Reaching, stabbing fingers that touch bone. Dorian screams, he drops his staff with a suddenly useless hand – unable to keep his fingers curled around its circumference. He hangs limply at the demons mercy and his vision is suddenly receding and dark.

Just another magister.

He feels the blood – thick and wet – as it oozes down his arms, following the curve of his biceps and dripping off the tips of his fingers. He curls his brow, eyes narrowing with a thought. There is not much time, soon he will be unconscious and from there on his way to dead – he has to act quickly, and with force.

Dorian touches his index finger to his thumb, feeling the sticky wet.

And he summons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to leave you with something action packed before the weekend. ;)


	11. Calm Before Storm

There is a large, rough hand at the back of his neck supporting Dorian in a sitting position, and his mouth is filled with the taste of iron and something sweet. _Elfroot?_ He begins to blink blearily, pain shoots down his arms and across his chest, his ribs constricting and _ahh –_ he thinks, _a healing potion_.

The Iron Bull forces another potion to his mouth and Dorian gags this time, hands coming up to bat the offered help to the side. Bull sits back silently, mouth a grim line, continuing to support Dorians head while he orients himself.

From over Bulls shoulder, Sera is furious. Pacing back and forth and shouting about how the Tevinter doesn’t listen and almost got dead without them.

There are other sounds, he realizes as his faculties begin to return, the singing of a blade, slicing through the air followed by the shrieking of the last shade. Shuffling feet and clanking armor. Blackwall huffs up to Sera and peers over Bull at Dorian – “He lives?”

“Piss, he better not.” Sera spits.

“He’s all right.” Bull nods.

From where Dorian lays, he can see Blackwall stern and hiding concern behind bushy facial hair – maybe if Dorian grows a beard he will have an easier time of – _never mind. Disgusting._

There are also armored figures moving through the chamber, _ahh yes, Templars_.

Dorian plants his hands and, despite a shooting pain below his collarbone on each side, finds his arms strong enough to support his weight. Sitting up fully, he inhales the smell of ozone and elfroot – fire and blood – his eyes cast around for the abomination.

“Did I…”

“YOU almost got yourself killed,” Sera points off to the side where the formerly terrifying abominations head lies detached from its pincushion body. “We got here, quick too, and no Dorian. Of course! Dead demons, burning things, and you all skewered by this fucker –“ she punctuates the thought with a vicious kick to the demons body, “you owe us a thank you, a _thank you for putting arrows and swords in the big bad demon thingy I insisted on fighting alone._ ”

Dorians head swims; _he had not killed it. He almost had… What had he almost done?_ Dorian had done something. He’s sure of it. The power had surged through him – more immense then anything he had ever channeled before.

“Well you found the phylacteries all right.” Blackwall indicates the chamber around them. “And the blood mage.”

“Have a talent for that.” Dorian struggles to his feet, waving off Bull’s offer of help. Once righted, he casts around anxiously for the vials of blood they came to find.

“This is them then?” Blackwall huffs as they step up to the hoard of softly glowing – and not glowing – vials.

“Yes. This is it.”

“How do we… make them stop doing that.” Sera indicates the crackling red of the blood magic.

Bull nods towards the Templars, “Divine Victoria sent the Templars to dispel the magic, and destroy whatever is left.”

Dorian sighs, grateful, he is all but spent himself.

Stepping up as though this was their cue, the Templars gather in a circle around the glowing vials, mailed hands raise swords to their chests, then plunge the swords into the ground as the knights take it in turn to kneel. Level with the phylacteries, a green aura descends on the room. The red of the blood magic begins to churn with fervor as though it fights to endure – and when the two powers collide – the blood magic deteriorates and disappears.

Dorians head spins, his stomach heavy and sick with the pain of his injuries still knitting together.

_Is it over?_

_What did I do?_

Bull hands him a piece of parchment. “This is from Leliana.”

On the page is a rune, a small symbol and below it the name – _Garret Tevelyan_.

Dorian falls to his knees before the mound of vials, hands shaking as he sifts through – careful, do not break, checking the top of each for the corresponding rune. He checks the glowing vials – and the still and silent ones alike. Turning them over in his hands slowly, breath held. It is with great adulation he matches rune to glowing rune – finally in his grasp, the inquisitors phylactery.

And

It

Glows.

A softly swirling light that is the most comforting thing Dorian has ever seen.

“It’s good then ya?” Sera asks over his shoulder and Dorian cannot help but smile.


	12. Chapter 12

_What have I done?_

This is a new dream, the likes of which he has not faced for many years and it is terrifying in its intensity.

The Black City looming in the distance and Thedas stretching out before it, burning and charred.

Dorians hands pulse with the magic he’s summoned, the static hum of it between his fingers throbbing with an intensity he can barely control.

Sticky blood, hot and wet and everywhere. He is covered in it – _is it his?_ He is terrified by the uncertainty.

He looks back at the city, at Denerim and Skyhold and Minrathous somehow all within his field of view. All of them scorched; all of them are blackened to dust and gleaming with the red of his blood magic.

There are demons all around him and they wear the faces of his friends. They mock, they taunt.

_Dorian, we trusted you._

_Dorian, we thought you would change things –_

_we thought you would help—_

_The good Tevinter –_

_But there’s no such thing._

Trevelyan is waiting, is standing before the gates of the black city with his green glowing hand. When Dorian approaches, the Inquisitor raises the anchor – his face twisted in hatred.

“Please,” Dorian cries, “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Whatever intentions you had,” Trevelyan shouts back in return, “they have brought us here all the same. When the thing you wanted was outside your reach – you reached too far. You pulled this future down upon us.”

“The thing I wanted,” Dorian scoffs, “was you.”

Trevelyan lowers his hand, eyes softened. “When your life was ebbing, when it was your blood and mine, you chose this. You brought me back – to a world I didn’t want.”

“I just wanted to see you again.”

Trevelyan shakes his head, “not like this. I would have waited.”

The anchor glows hot and as it raises towards Dorian he reacts without thinking, strikes out with his magic – red power escaping his hands in a rush of pure energy.

He has never been this powerful, every muscle, every bone in his body humming with the potency of it. It doesn’t matter that he is killing the man he claims to love, it doesn’t matter that the world burns. When he is a god he can make a new world – raise a new Inquisitor – put it all back into place and form a picture from the puzzle of his own design.

When he wakes from this dream, he is gasping for breath.

He is drowning.

Shattered.

Nauseated, he is barely able to stop himself from emptying his stomach. The pain in his shoulders is intense; the healing gash across his ribs a throbbing, dull ache. Potions knit the wounds, repair most of the damage, but time and rest are still requirements of healing.

When his breath comes more naturally, he empties his pack and finds the Inquisitors phylactery. Its cool glow reminding him that things should be well. Things should be right.

Why does he feel as though everything is wrong?

Blood magic could have made him into a monster, but nothing seems to have changed – Dorian told the Inquisitor once that blood magic, if used responsibly, was no more harmful than any other kind. The danger was in the temptation to do more, _to be more_.

Best left alone then, best not experimented with lest one discover themselves too weak to turn away.

Dorian had done something – drawn on the power of his own blood and the blood of the mages of the circle to execute the last breath of a thought. Whatever that was, it seemed neither harmful nor dangerous. So what does that make him? A monster, or merely a fool.


	13. The Ending They Deserve

There is something about return journeys. The distance the same – but the trials, sights and sounds – expected. The homecoming hastened by the expectation.

What felt like an eternity before, feels like a series of moments when played in reverse.

Dorian is exhausted and although the mood is generally lighter – he lags behind, preferring to wallow in his own perceived misery. He sleeps little, each night returning to the darkness of the fade and tossing fitfully until he wakes, shaking, sometimes calling out a name. The others share looks, but say nothing. It is hard to understand what might be ailing their friend, when their short journey seems to have been so successful.

They laugh around the fire, tease each other during the ride– but it is all tinged with a darkness Dorian cannot expel. The reunion he has imagined, hoped for – prayed for even – within reach. Dimmed now, a veil of _what ifs_ that obscures the shimmering of hope.

There are times – when the others sleep, stop for water, when they are speaking off together and Dorian knows their eyes focus elsewhere – times when he slips the phylactery from out of his robe to check that it still glows. Until he sees, knows for certain, what else does he have? _Wait for me Amatus_. Empty words spoken into the darkness. No one hears.

As they grow closer to Skyhold the phylactery begins to pulse with light, the closer they draw the brighter the light becomes. In the darkness of his tent, it is the only illumination and under its rippling glow, he can rest a short time.

Breaking camp at the base of the Frostback mountains, the air is fresh with just a slight pinch of cold and it seems spring has begun to fold into the first warm rays of summer. The mountains reach high enough to brush back the clouds and the snow capped peaks glisten and sing.

Dorian’s nervousness is palpable. He attempts to fix his hair, rights his clothes just so. Pulls out the phylactery one more time to check, the comfort bestowed upon seeing it doing little to quell his growing anxiety.

There is a rustle outside and Bull pulls aside the flap of the tent and lets himself in. Dorian hastily returns the vial to his pocket and raises a hand. “I know, I know, I’m coming.”

“Nah.” Bull shrugs, sits down on the cot. “I just thought we should talk before we head up.” Dorian squints back, raises an eyebrow. “I know I don’t say much, but I notice a lot and I noticed something back in Denerim.”

Dorian feels a knot he had not been quite aware of tighten in his stomach, “Yes?”

“When we found you in the vault Dorian, you were half dead. I’ve seen Tevinters like that before. As the blood spills out they all get that same look in their eyes -- It’s primal. Survival. They know they can, know it might save them – so it’s not uncommon that they try.”

Dorians mind churns, rolling the thoughts over and over. He wants to spill a confession, but he keeps the words tightly corralled behind the hard line of his mouth, tongue pressing the back of his teeth.

“The thing is,” Bull continues, not watching Dorians face, not showing any interest in how his words might be received, “it happens fast – you have to act fast when they get that look – before they can summon anything. It happens in the time it takes to blink – one minute you’re winning and they’re bleeding out all helpless and the next you’re reeling back from the biggest shock of your life. The force of it, enough to turn the tide of battle. All hell breaks loose. Demons, power like you’ve never seen.”

He turns his face up to meet Dorians, his eye is kind, benevolent – where Dorian expected to see judgement he sees pity instead, and it burns his stomach just the same.

“I saw the same look in your eyes, when we found you. I saw what you were going to do…”

“I don’t want to talk…” Dorian starts, fists clenched and heart racing.

“But you didn’t do it.”

All the fight goes out of him, all the air; this was not how he expected the conversation to go – not with Bull certainly, not with the inquisitor later. “What?”

“You had the option to, no doubt you thought about it, but you decided you would rather die. If we hadn’t shown up when we did, you would have. I saw the light go out right before we attacked -- you could have become what you hated Dorian, and in that instant when you had to make the hard choice – you made the right one. I just wanted you to know that I saw it.”

He stands, horns brushing the top of the tent, looking down at Dorian with the small upturn of his mouth into a smile. “You’re all right, Tevinter. You did good.”

 

* * *

 

As they approach the fortress of Skyhold, the sounds of celebration drift towards them through the snow lined valleys of the Frostback Mountains.

The banners fly high over the walls, the people flock to the fortress dressed in colorful regalia, Dorian even sees women with ribbons in their hair. _Ribbons._ The joy is infectious. Not even Sera, who had been complaining loudly just hours before, can keep the smile from her face.

At the gate, they are welcomed as heroes of the Inquisition; someone puts a necklace of flowers over Dorians head. Bull is the only one who refuses this honor – more for the logistical problem that poses then lack of cheer.

They are relieved of their horses and bags and lead into the keep, songs wafting up from the courtyards above and below. As they approach the stairs, a familiar face greets them. “And finally you arrive. How’s it goin’ Sparkler?”

“Varric!” Dorian wants to lift the dwarf by the shoulders and shake him with mirth – something he dare not attempt for fear of his life – as it is Varric reaches out and hugs him. _Hugs him_. Dorian feels the – all too common lately – tightening of his chest.

“Tiny, Hero and Buttercup. My three favorite loyalists. Ever thought of leaving Skyhold to fend for itself?”

“Someone has to hold down the fort.” Bull shrugs, “literally.”

“Well met!” Blackwall claps Varric on the shoulder as they fall into step with one another.

“Where is everyone?” Sera asks.

“In the keep. Ruffles decided to throw a party and, despite missing the whole damn business, I at least got an invitation to that. Didn’t think I would be the first to arrive though! I even beat Leliana back from Val Royeaux. You lot took your time.”

"Well gee; it’s hard to stay on your horse after almost having your spine ripped out your ass.” Sera mumbles. She is obviously still cross about the whole fighting without her thing.

“That is not quite what happened.” Dorian makes a mental note that reparations are going to be in order. A fruit basket maybe.

“See what I mean, oh the stories I’ve missed!” Varric laughs.

Up the stairs, Dorians heart is beating faster. Maybe there is more colour in his face then there should be because Varric is looking across at him with something like concern. _Don’t look, don’t make eye contact._ _Don’t let them see._

The doors to the keep are thrown open, inside somewhat more quiet then out but still filled with revelry. Maryden plucks away at her lute from the front of the great hall and the steaming scent of well-cooked food makes Dorians mouth water lustfully.

Josephine squeals when she sees them – forgetting for a moment her usual reservations – and pulls Dorian into his second hug of the day. “Dorian, the Inquisitor is up and walking around – it’s positively a miracle.”

“Glad to hear it Josie.” She releases him and wraps her arms around each of the others in turn, “We’re so glad to have you home!”

“Some party you’ve got going on.”

“It was as if a dark cloud lifted from Skyhold upon the Inquisitors return. All I’ve had to do is make sure everyone is fed and the celebration has continued without encouragement.”

Leliana and Cullen approach. They are smiling, grinning maybe and Dorian feels about ready to deck everyone and run for the library because _they are all so happy it hurts_.

“The Divine sends her congratulations, and thanks.” Leliana tells them.

“I heard the Grand Enchanter was involved?”

“Indeed, she was already in Val Royeaux when I arrived, many of her enchanters were affected by the spell. You have saved many lives.”

“I prefer marble for the statue.”

Anticipation is a knot in his stomach by now, his heart painfully constricted in his chest. Leliana ducks behind a soft smile and rests her gloved hand on his arm. “If you would come with me Dorian, I believe there is someone who wants to see you.”

He can say nothing to that, bows his head as Leliana extracts him from the group and leads him – _maker_ – to the end of the hall and left towards the chambers of the Inquisitor.

“How… does he fare?”

Leliana tilts her head, considering. “Well.” she decides, pushing open the door and leading him into the hallway within, “It has not been an easy journey, as with any return from long illness. He has been experiencing… gaps, in his memory, but his strength grows each day. His spirits will be bolstered by your return.”

“What exactly happened ...here?”

“I had not yet returned when the Inquisitor woke. I am told he was disoriented, weakened. However, Cullen, Cole and Josephine have taken very good care of him. He’s started walking the gardens and grounds again, much to the delight of the people.”

She knocks softly at the interior door and the Inquisitor calls to welcome them in. Dorian fights the maddening urge to turn and run. “I’ll leave you alone.” Leliana nods, still smiling confound her, and returns to the main hall.

Dorian pushes the door gingerly and steps into the Inquisitors chambers. Inside, the balcony doors are open to the mountain air, there is a fire glowing in the hearth and the room once again feels as though it is occupied. The bed is made, empty, several documents sitting on the end. Trevelyan is standing near his desk where a mirror and shaving kit have been laid out and – he turns– _dammit_ , he has a beard.

Dorian has to laugh.

“All this time apart, me agonizing over what my first words to the inquisitor might be and now that I stand before you, I am vexed. My, you are a wicked man.”

Trevelyan smiles, his eyes crinkling up in the corners with stored happiness. “Varric could write you something poignant if you like.”

“Then why do I bother at all?” Dorian closes the gap between them slowly, by inches.

“You look ghastly.”

Trevelyans hand twitches reflexively to his face, itching his neck. “Apparently I haven’t been out much these few months.”

“I can tell. Forgotten to shave have you?” Another inch, a foot left between them.

“I don’t know, I was thinking of keeping it. Or shaping it into a fanciful mustache like yours.”

“Makes you look like Blackwall – Tired.”

“I’ve been told I slept enough.”

“For a decade probably.”

“Dorian…”

“No, let’s not – you’ll have me reduced to a blubbering mess and I…”

“I almost died Dorian and I won’t let you go away again without telling you plainly…”

“Please.” Dorian begs. He places a hand on one of Trevelyans arms and moves him to the chair at the desk. “Let me help you.”

Trevelyan sits and Dorian perches on the desk in front of him. Their bodies make soft contact, knee against knee, shin rested on thigh. Dorian presses a warm cloth from the basin on the table to Trevelyans face for a few moments. Silence passes between them, sizzling like a static cage.

He removes a soft brush from the water and lathers it with soap. As he works he tries not to look into the other mans eyes, instead quietly analyzing the man before him. The curves of the Inquisitors face as Dorian moves the lather to its planes. Trevelyan’s hands are trembling – from either emotion or weakness – his skin is pale, but his eyes are bright and clear. Trevelyan’s eyes are an ocean of churning expectations and seeing the question on his face Dorian cannot help but love him.

Lathering complete, he gently takes Trevelyan’s face into his hands and guides the blade, almost flush with the skin beneath, over the offending facial hair. When one pass is complete, he wets the skin again and directs the blade a second time. Down his neck, up the line of his jaw. When he is finished Trevelyan pats his face dry and grins.

“Better?”

“Oh so much.”

“Think you can stomach…” He doesn’t have to complete the thought, Dorian is a step ahead. He wraps his hand around the back of Trevelyans neck and pulls him forwards for a deep, long kiss.

During the weeks and months that follow Dorian holds their reunion in his mind like a prayer. It is his focus, his beacon. _Wait for me Amatus_. And he did.

When the impossible happens, Dorian folds the memory into his heart, even as the Inquisitor begins to forget.


	14. Dorians End

_Subtly at first._

Dorian is lounging in a chair next to the fire. Behind him the balcony doors are propped open and a cool breeze from the mountains beyond contrasts nicely with the warmth of the interior. His legs are folded at the knee and his index finger rests between parted lips. He occasionally wets the tip with his tongue and uses it to flip the pages of his book.

Trevelyan has been confined to his bed again after a particularly ill advised sparring match with The Iron Bull.

_Just too much too soon, you’ll push yourself past breaking._

_I have to get stronger Dorian._

_No need to be that strong, you only need lift a staff._

The Inquisitor is propped up on eight different brightly coloured cushions and still squirms, mouth drawn down at the corners, when his bruised ribs begin to protest his positioning. A pile of papers rest in his lap, open missives all requiring the eyes of the Inquisitor.

_It’s a good thing I’m well rested these days, I don’t think Josie intends to let me sleep ever again._

_Neither do I._

Dorian clucks his tongue at some errant extrapolation on the pages of his tome and Trevelyans head snaps up in surprise – his eyes wide and confused.

Dorian looks up long enough to catch the expression. “ _Amatus_?”

A moment of silence that expands into realization and Trevelyan shakes his head blearily, rubbing at his eyes, trying to dispel a thought he might have had.

“Nothing, Dorian. It’s nothing.”

But it’s enough to set Dorians heart thudding in his chest every time he thinks he’s caught a glance or expression that doesn’t belong.

_More rapidly as time presses on._

Dorian plays chess with Cullen in the garden. They are smiling, chatting, worldly problems pushed aside and forgotten long enough to enjoy the warm sunshine of a summer’s day.Dorian is winning for the moment and he is being as vocal as possible about it.

Trevelyan enters the garden from the main hall, stopping to chat with several friendly faces as he meanders. Face amiable, strength returned to mind and body. Dorian watches him absently with the twinge of a lustful smile.

Catching Trevelyans eye as he is chatting with Mother Giselle, Dorian winks.

Trevelyan furrows his brow, as though he is trying to place a face, nods his head, a subtle bend of his neck that betrays indifference.

_Then it happens all at once._

After a long day Trevelyan returns to his quarters, exhausted. Dorian hears the creak of the door opening from where he waits on the balcony but when he turns, there is no one there.

Sometime later, there is a knock and Josephine enters, face pale and tired – none of her usual self.

“Josie what is it?” He motions her to sit but she refuses, pacing anxiously and not quite meeting his eyes.

“The Inquisitor just came to me in my office, he was confused, disoriented like when he first woke ..."

“What did he say?”

“He was raving,” she throws up her hands, “saying nonsense.”

“Josie, what did he say?” Dorian asks again, sinking into a chair, knowing and not knowing – waiting to hear it said out loud.

“He said, there’s a man in my room I don’t know, and he asked me did I send him there.”

It is one thing to suspect – and another to have your suspicions confirmed.

“You said... he was disoriented like when he first woke. Leliana never told me …”

“When he returned to us he was very confused. He… didn’t remember _you_ at all Dorian.”

“And what happened?”

Josie thinks for a moment, purses her lips. “Cole spoke with him for a while and then...he was more himself.”

The boy is on the ramparts, sitting, watching. The entire keep folded out before him while he stares into the dark corners and light dappled courtyards alike. He doesn’t look up when Dorian approaches. Tilts his head to the side and listens while Dorian sits next to him.

“I’m sorry.” Cole whispers finally and Dorian shakes his head.

“So am I.”

“I tried to fix it, make him see, and it worked for a time. But some magic is strong, the blood and the burning and the breaking. _I’m going to die._ Send it out on the blood like a wave and say, _forget._ It’s love and it’s leaving.”

Dorian remembers the piercing fingers of the demon as they entered his shoulders, dividing flesh and muscle. The dripping of the blood –- sticky and wet— down his hands. He was disoriented, he was tired, he was done. The moment when he reached out with the power–- how do I fix this? I promised to be there -– to come back.

 _Make him forget_.

“You…could make him remember again?”

“Maybe… for a time. I used to think I was a ghost. Some would see, but then they would forget. Then someone saw me for what I was. Knew me. Remembered. He made me real. I… can’t make you real anymore.”

They sit for some time, as the last vestiges of evening fall into night the cold creeps up, raising gooseflesh along the surface of Dorians skin. “I think… It will be better this way. I can return to Tevinter, I can focus on my political aspirations. He can move on. Above reproach, finally. We’ll both forget in time.”

Cole thinks for a moment, “The Inquisitor taught me some things are _worth_ feeling. Mercy isn’t right without a choice.”

“It’s better this way.” Dorian repeats, more to himself. With the summer sun forgotten by the stones of the keep – just a whisper to the West – the cold settles between Dorians ribs – it is ice, it is acceptance.

“Why do you want to hurt Dorian? I want to help, but you hold it too close.”

“Remember… when I told you about love?” Dorian asks quietly.

“I remember, Love isn’t enough you said, the ones you love disappoint you the most.”

“Now I… have done something to disappoint the Inquisitor. To hurt him. Love … isn’t enough to fix that. I can’t take it back.”

So he’ll leave it trapped in the ice. Frozen in his heart.

Of course, Dorian must explain to the advisors and the inner circle. He must tell them clearly – it is over.

They offer solutions, cast about for reasons and when nothing presents itself, Dorian confesses.

Not everyone understands. There is anger, hurt, and confusion. Cole is quiet, Varric is distant, Sera is enraged to silence, and Bull stares him down with something beyond disdain. It is perhaps this reaction that hurts Dorian the most. What trust he had built, what gratitude –- dashed on rocks of his own making.

Leliana asks for everyone’s sake, “And what should we tell the Inquisitor?”

“Tell him Dorian Pavus helped the Inquisition for a time.”

Arrangements are made, passage booked on a ship from Jader over the Waking Sea to Cumberland in Nevarra. A familiar journey that does not feel so much like going home as running away.

There are no painful goodbyes this time, no final words or last confessions. Dorian resolves to steal away in the darkness, be in Jader for sunrise. Before he does, he ascends to the rookery to speak with Skyholds Spymaster.

“Dorian,” She takes in his traveling clothes and packed bags with a nod. “Varric will be sorry not to say goodbye. Despite your best efforts, some remember your deeds for the Inquisition.”

“Thank you Leliana.” He nods, “But I rather not.”

They exchange a look; she is waiting, going to let him say what he needs to say and not prompt him before he is ready. She is a master of confessions.

“I… need to return something to you. For safekeeping.” From the satchel at his belt, he retrieves the glowing Phylactery of the Inquisitor.

“Dorian, this should have been destroyed!”

“In Denerim. I know. I … intended to return it to the Inquisitor myself. I don’t know why I kept it.”

The vial of blood pulses blue light, a strong bright glow that shines with the steady beat of the Inquisitors heart. She takes it, considering. “You are right to return it to me. We cannot allow it to be used again.”

“Surely not. And in the hands of such a reckless mage, it could prove positively disastrous.”

Leliana pockets the vial, a thin smile on her face. It is more terrifying to Dorian then if she were steeled with anger; the cold silent Leliana that strikes fear into the hearts of practically everyone would be preferred over this calm acceptance of his pain.

“I think I understand you, Dorian Pavus.”

“You might be the first.”

Dorian takes a last glance at the comforting glow of the phylactery as Leliana slips it away into her pocket. Cut off from its light he feels his resolve weaken.

* * *

 

Down the stairs of the rotunda, dust motes floating in the library and the scent of mouldering knowledge.

Down again to the room with no occupant. A last look at the paintings there – unfinished but glorious. The triumphs of the Inquisition. The story of their past.

Feel the warmth of the softly burning fire bitten off by the sting of early morning air.

Stare out over the courtyards below, the Tavern, the training grounds and the armory. Everything is empty and dark, but for a single flickering light from the window of the Heralds Rest. Sera’s window is dark. The elf probably will not rise until noon.

The stone of the stairwell is cold, footsteps echo.

Down and around, beneath the bridge, feet to dew covered grass. The infirmary quiet, its few poor souls and the always-busy surgeon blessedly asleep.

Eyes cast to the left to see the stables in the distance. Movement inside, Blackwall must be starting his day early, the fire in the barn already stoked to life. The Horse Master might already be mucking stalls, there are even a few lonely figures moving around the well.

Stopping by the gate to take a final look inwards. Soon the entire keep will come alive with the bustling of daily life. Voices will stir and shops will open. Commerce and comradery will fill the low areas with laughter and shouts.

Up high, the garden will awaken to the prayers of the faithful, higher still –- overlooking everything; the Inquisitor might sit up in bed, stretching his neck side to side to massage old hurts. He might stoke the fire in his quarters with a flickering of magic from his hand. He might throw open the balcony doors and inhale the sweet of the mountain morning, the scent of cold air and honeyed dawn.

In front of him, every mountain peak glistening with golden light and singing with the breeze, every town, village, city, and person in the expanse of his vision will belong to him.

The Herald of Andraste. The leader of the Inquisition.

 _He will stand strong and alone_ , Dorian thinks as he finally tears his eyes from the towers of Skyhold Fortress, _it is better that he stands alone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardest bit to write? Hope the motivations are somewhat clear and things feel like they're coming together. Only one more chapter to go.


	15. The Inquisitors End

“Magister Pavus?”

Dorians head jerks up from the pages of the book he had been intent on devouring – some trivial thing about the history of the Magisterium – eyes refocusing from the words on the page to the woman before him.

“Yes, what is it?” He is annoyed, raising an eyebrow to encourage her to speak quickly. He hates being disturbed on afternoons such as these, with so little time to spend reading now that he has taken up his seat in the Magisterium.

“My lord, you have a visitor just arrived from Orlais.”

Dorian rests the open book on the top of his thigh, fishing with his other hand for something to mark the page.

“A visitor?”

“Yes my lord, he awaits you in the gardens when you are ready.”

“A name?”

“He gave none, my lord.”

Dorian feels his stomach twist, a visitor from Orlais? It has been years since he left, and no one from that time in his life has ever bothered visiting him before. Varric writes, sometimes both he and Cole. Leliana occasionally sends something along on the Inquisitions activities. Important updates and the like, but a personal visit?

He catches a glimpse of his reflection as he sets his book aside and straightens his robes. A tinge of grey has begun to creep up his temples, his face is more lined then he remembers. There is something staring back at him from within his reflection to – a hope he thought long dead – a thought that he dares not entertain. There is pain there too, pain that he keeps locked away to fester and break from within. What was it he said to the Inquisitor all that time ago, living a lie?

Through the halls of his estate to the courtyard, a beautiful garden designed with many reading nooks and chess tables set in both the sun and shade.

He is seen before he sees.

Their eyes meet from opposite sides of a softly rushing fountain, the other sitting comfortably in the shade of an oak tree, his staff leaning next to him, a book resting in his lap under the soft green glow of his hand.

Dorian feels the shattering of the cold in his chest, the breaking, unwinding, and – _kaffas_ – how can it hurt so keenly when only a moment ago it was the soft, dull throb of memories pushed aside.

He approaches cautiously, suddenly self-conscious about the flecks of grey and the lines around his mouth. When he is close enough to speak, he realizes Trevelyan is smiling; the soft, upturned line of the mouth Dorian can remember was his. The Inquisitor is not unchanged either. His hair still cropped short, a little thinner, also betraying a flash of white and Dorian notices a scar on one cheek that he has never touched. Of course, without Dorians influence the man has grown facial hair again, at least a sculpted goatee instead of the beard Dorian so viciously hated.

“Inquisitor Trevelyan.” His greeting is searching, probing. _How much does he know?_

“Dorian Pavus. Magister now, is that right? Congratulations.”

“Hardly that, Inquisitor. A mere inconvenience, that being a member of the Magisterium is the only way to have your opinions counted.”

“I have heard many incredible things about your opinions. You have achieved much.”

“Not so much as yourself.”

Trevelyan smiles, motions to the seat next to him. “Please.”

Dorian would very much prefer to stand. He nods, and sits.

“To what do I owe…” Dorian starts but trails off as Trevelyan offers him the book from his lap.

“Have you read the most recent Tethras?” He asks, his eyes searching.

Dorian almost loses his lunch when he takes the red volume into his hands and reads the title. “The Tempest from Tevinter?” He flips the book open and reads the first page with a building sense of horror. He flips pages, his face reddening with some mixture of intense embarrassment and rage.

“I’m told it is a popular hybrid of smutty literature and hearty adventure.” The Inquisitor leans forward to observe Dorians rapid absorption of the novels contents.

“But this is about…”

“Us. Apparently.” Trevelyans smile fades at the edges, his eyes searching Dorians face for something – a memory that might be a dream.“The funny thing is I don’t remember it happening this way.”

“What… do you remember?”

“I remember a Tevinter Magister who used time magic to bind the rebel mages in Ferelden to his cause, who tried to kill me, sent me forward in time. Whose son helped to save me. Whose amulet I destroyed to bring us back to our own time and save the world.” Trevelyan rattles it off in a practiced way, easily and without hesitation, punctuated by a wave of the hand. “But that’s not what Varric says happened and, despite their reluctance, the rest of my inner circle admits it went a little differently. Or would have, were it not for you.”

“I … was there, at Redcliff. Yes.”

“ _I’ll protect you?_ That was you?”

“I… have been known to say idiotic things like that. Yes again.”

“Magister Pavus, there is more! The book – did I mention it was a _romance_? Indicating – well, a lot more than just what happened in Redcliff.”

Dorian would very much like to run away at this point. He flips to the last page of the book, averting his eyes from those of the Inquisitor. As he reads, his eyes widen.

_They met on the ramparts of the castle in a last effort to break the spell. If they failed, they would part. Each go their own ways and forget the other. An everlasting longing that would never be answered, never be complete._

_Doran_ – Doran, is he serious? – _retrieved the Phylactery from his robes and presented it as a gift._

_“What was done can still be reversed, but if you forget – it will save you from ever having to experience the pain of loss.”_

_“What is love without losing? How will I know joy without pain?”_

_“I could protect you from all of it. Your life could be so much simpler, happier maybe. No one would fault you for choosing this.”_

_“There is no choice.”_

_Together they tossed the phylactery from the ramparts and as it smashed on the rocks below, cool dissipating blue glow and the red hot splash of blood on the snow, the Inquisitors memories were restored._

“Horrible. I would never… and this part… never happened.”

“The end?” The Inquisitor shakes his head, “a bit of creative license I suppose. Leliana did destroy the Phylactery, but nothing changed.”

“And the rest, how much creative license did he take exactly?”

“I’m afraid that, I just don’t know.”

Dorian looks up to meet Trevelyans eyes and is surprised by the depth of pain he sees there. Until that moment, he had convinced himself that maybe – just maybe – he had used blood magic without becoming a monster and, feeling his pain turn to revulsion, he realizes that just is not true.

“I… am sorry inquisitor. I should return…”

“That’s it?” Trevelyan’s eyes flash, “I have just spent weeks of travel, not to mention months of piecing together the facts, to come here and ask you to spell it out: what did you do to me? What part of this drivel is true? I would have you tell me, and I will not be leaving until I know.”

There is the cool glint of resentment beneath the softness of the expression. There, Dorian thinks, is the resolve that leads a man to stare down demons, slay dragons, and grant mercy from an iron throne. There it is.

“The truth is, Inquisitor, that I cannot be trusted. Not with my own devices and certainly not with yours. When I was pushed past reason, when I stood on the precipice of my own death -– I fell prey to the same temptation as the many blood mages before me. I remember…”

A wish, a declaration, an intention formed in blood. It would be better for him to _forget._

“I remember the moment I made the choice, and from there, the regret. I chose for us both, so that I could return to Tevinter without guilt, so that your life would be safe from those who would harm you to harm me, so that you could… move on. It was wrong and it was stupid and it was misguided but I did it anyway. I lost every friend I ever had over that choice.”

Trevelyan is silent for a moment, shifting in his seat with his eyes cast down. Dorian can see the struggle in the line of his shoulders, the way his fingers close and unclose around the anchor. It is only fair that he should confront Dorian now, that he should rage and rail against him. What Dorian did was reprehensible, above forgiveness, above forgetting.

“Not every friend.” Trevelyan answers. “Varric paints you in a somewhat more flattering light then you seem to paint yourself.”

“It’s a book. It’s fiction.”

“Varric says fiction should be based in truth, or it cannot be believed.”

“Varric has done us both a disservice.” Dorian hands the book back, stands.

“I have been happy.” Trevelyan stands as well, he is longing, he is lost. “At times. I have shared my life with friends, have even shared my bed. I have loved and lost, all this time knowing that something was missing. It was always in their faces, they clip around the truth, never wanting to be the one admit the honest fact – I’ve been in love before. With you.”

“Please I…”

“Detest confessions, yes, it’s in the book, but I won’t have you make this choice for me any longer. I have come here to discover if there is anything left of the man I loved. If I might choose again. For myself.”

Dorian shakes his head, he cannot see a future where they fall back into each others arms and somehow everything is right – it does not exist. Should not. He clenches his fists, “Trevelyan, you are a terribly dull and I hate you.” Then turns to leave.

“I read your letters.” Trevelyan calls back. “I didn’t understand at first – how could I, I didn’t know you! But I understand now. You asked me to wait, called me _Amatus,_ and I have been waiting.”

Dorian turns back, “how could you… Varric never knew?”

“I remember it from the dream. When I was trapped, sleeping, I tried everything I could – casting and magic and power – but the only thing that drew me back to my body were the voices in my room. Cole spoke to me sometimes; he comforted me and told me that people who loved me were doing what they could. He spoke your name and I ... remember it. And I remember your words. For a time I was unsure if they were real, or part of the dream. I couldn’t remember your face but I knew your voice when you asked me to wait. That _was_ you?”

“It was.”

“You promised you’d come back.”

Dorians heart and mind are racing for control of his mouth and he very much wishes he could be glib right now but he’s also out of practice. “I… have been trying to get back to that man, the man I was with you. I don’t know if I’ll ever...” He fades off, looking away.

“You’re stubborn.”

Dorian looks up, surprised, to find Trevelyans eyes glimmering with mischievous energy.

“You learn fast.”

“What else might I learn?”

“That’s really all you need to know.”

And they’re closing the gap between each other slowly, by inches.

“You really want… this?” Dorian asks, one last hesitation before he gives in.

“I want to find out.”

Another inch, just a foot left between them.

“How smutty is that book, exactly?”

“It leaves enough open to … discovery.”

Trevelyan reaches for Dorians face and pulls him forwards into a long, deep kiss. Probing with his tongue until Dorian relinquishes himself, open mouthed, in response.

It is a searching, probing kiss. A kiss to help them remember what was, and discover what might be again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for reading, I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> If you've been following along I would love to hear what you think! I'm open to any kind of constructive criticism. 
> 
> Thank you!


	16. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan in his bed. Dorian can barely believe it. - a happy, hopeful epilogue as an apology for previous chapters. Felt good to write this bit of fluff.

Mornings golden light drifts lazily through the casement window. The brightness of it smoothing over every imperfection it touches and blazing a fiery arc across the curve of Trevelyan’s exposed hip, white sheets and a top quilt lazily tossed aside in a heap during the night. 

Trevelyan in his bed. Dorian can barely believe it. In Tevinter no less! 

The Altus studies the brown, sun-touched skin of his long ago lover. Trevelyan is naturally fair, with dirty blonde hair, but since leaving Ostwick circle, he has spent enough time outdoors to tint the skin seasoned brown. He has a few dark brown freckles on his forehead and cheeks, a few scars that date back to the days of the mage rebellion – one above and below his left eye, one above his left ear, and one curving up from under his chin. Of course, there is also the faintly glowing green anchor that still marks the Inquisitors hand. These things, Dorian remembers, but there are also many things about the man that have changed.  

The hair, grown longer on top and shaved shorter on the sides. A different style from Trevelyan’s former closely cropped cut. More fashionable, more flattering. The light flecks of white are hardly noticeable against the honey coloured strands. 

The skin is a map of their years apart. Dorian finds himself retroactively worrying over the scars he observes. First, there is the short white line that runs from one cheekbone to the inner corner of the mouth, the crescent moon that follows the curve of Trevelyan’s lower ribs, and the jagged looking gash near the collarbone that still shows the dotted line where the stitches went in. Stories, to be sure. One’s Dorian will want to hear in detail. There are other signs of the passing of time – wrinkles around the eyes, mouth, and creasing the forehead. All smooth now on the face that slumbers. The body is hardened, more densely muscled from training and physical punishment. There are also new freckles on the bronzed shoulders, endearingly, a sunspot on the bridge of Trevelyan’s nose. 

Dorian smiles, instinctively scratching the irritated skin of his chin. He is not so used to kissing a bearded man. Perhaps he can convince Trevelyan to shave the goatee off again. It ages him. The Inquisitor is two years Dorians senior, but how young had he seemed last night when they were caught between each other? Trevelyan searching Dorians body for the holds, the angles, the motions that would carry them into ecstasy, and Dorian remembering every curve of the man from encounters past. Remembering every movement that would cause Trevelyan to melt back into the mattress. Dorian almost envied Trevelyan’s ignorance, the ability to relive the first encounter – re-discover everything for the first time. As sweet as a first lovemaking might be, Dorian had been living this moment a million times over for the last five years and nothing could eclipse the glowing fact that this time – this time it was real. 

His heart thuds painfully in his chest as the thought blossoms. It  is real. 

Trevelyan stirs and Dorian quickly averts his gaze, suddenly fascinated by the back of his own hand. When he glances back, Trevelyan’s blue eyes match his stare. 

“Sweet dreams I hope.” Dorians voice is light, betraying none of the emotion that threatens to choke him.

“Who needs them?” Trevelyan squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again, seemingly awe struck to find Dorian still next to him in the bed. Dorian wonders how many times his lover has lived this moment, how many times Trevelyan has opened his eyes and found no one there. 

Unconsciously, he moves closer, inching across the mattress until their legs are again entwined. 

“I can still hardly believe…” Trevelyan starts, and then looks away. Despite the self-conscious gesture, his hands find Dorians waist. “You’re solid, real. Last night…”

“Was definitely real.” Dorian runs his brown finger over the mark he left at the base of Trevelyans neck. “Tell me, what did you foresee when you came here? Did you think, ‘ _I’ll go, see what all the fuss is about, can’t possibly be as handsome or charming as Varric makes him out to be, I’ll see and I’ll leave and at least then I’ll know’._..” 

“You seem to have me figured out. I definitely didn’t think you’d be so handsome.” Trevelyan presses his bearded face against Dorians and the former Altus rears back, laughing. 

“We’ll need to talk about that thing on your face.” 

“I am quite attached to it I’ll have you know.” Trevelyan paws his goatee self-consciously. 

“So?” Dorian presses. 

“I.. I don’t know. I didn’t really have a plan.” 

“You always have a plan.” 

“Wait a second; you don’t know me at all.” Trevelyan teases. “All I knew was that love – where it exists – is something worth saving. The circle taught me that.”

The circle. A time in his life that Trevelyan rarely spoke of when they were together. Perhaps it was too fresh, too recent then. Now, the look in his eyes is distant and thoughtful. 

“What happened to you, in the circle?” Dorian asks quietly, his own mind receding to the edges of his memory, the young over achiever – the prodigy. The disappointment.   


Trevelyan searches him with his eyes, perhaps wondering if this is a conversation they’ve already had. Finding ignorance there, he shrugs. “Ostwick circle was not a bad place to grow up. I have heard it was lenient in comparison to some – certainly, we heard much of Kirkwall and the troubles there. Still, there are some things constant between all circles. Basic rules to ‘prevent possession’. Mages are forbidden from … forming attachments. Until you’ve passed your harrowing, you can’t be trusted alone, and even then. Love… was this shining fragile thing. Like the wisp of a spirit from the fade – it could light the way or lead you further into the darkness.” 

“But you said…” 

“There was a marked difference when you had someone with you. Sneaking around, ducking into closets, hiding what you were doing, risking your life, even – it was preferable to the isolation. I came to think that having someone… is integral.” 

“To happiness.” Dorian whispers. 

“To happiness.” Trevelyan nods. 

Dorian wonders what this man knows of him. How much Varric told him – how much Varric himself knew. 

“Tevinter has circles?” Trevelyan seems to move closer unconsciously, Dorian absently whispers his fingers across Trevelyans ribs, feeling his lover shiver against him. 

“Yes, they do.” 

For a moment, this is all he says and Trevelyan looks away, but Dorian shakes himself. If not this man, who else? If not now, when?   


“I hated it.” He confesses slowly and is rewarded with renewed interest. “I hated everyone and everything during those years, and I lorded my abilities over the other apprentices. It wasn’t restrictive… not like in the South, but that didn’t stop me from wanting what I couldn’t have.” Dorians mouth quirks up at the corner, mechanically, without mirth.   


“What did you do?” 

“I ran away.” 

“You said…” Trevelyans face flushes and he looks away. 

“What, something the dwarf related to you?” 

“Fight for what’s in your heart.” Trevelyan finishes shyly.

Dorian considers, pensive. “When you’ve spent your life fighting – it can be hard to give that up. Old habits.” 

Trevelyan nods, and then draws Dorian in for a long kiss. 

If this is going to work, Dorian will need to see things differently. To see Trevelyan for what he can be, the small crystal clear light that guides the traveler through the black. Around him, the world will be dark and the night will be long, but there is power – not weakness – in relying on another person. Together, they might change the face of both the South and the North.

The morning glow that dances over their skin – dark and light – catches Trevelyans hair in it’s blazing colours, his brow set dark beneath the halo of the dawn. Dorian runs his hands through the yellow hair still mussed from the pillow, and kisses every freckle leading down that tawny neck. 

No dream, no lie of the fevered night. Trevelyan in his bed. This time, he will allow nothing to come between them.

This time he’ll fight. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My male mage Inquisitor, Garret. Gonna have to use his first name eventually. 
> 
> https://twitter.com/AniasTrevelyan/status/581696258395402240
> 
> Festis bei umo canavarum * you will be the death of me  
> Kaffas * Shit  
> Tevene sourced from here: http://dragonage.wikia.com/wiki/Tevene


End file.
